Afterimage
by zerofret
Summary: [The Terminator] One cancelled date drew Stan Morsky into events far beyond his control and understanding. CHAPTER 9 Developments POSTED.
1. Darkroom

Disclaimer: The author of this story owns no rights to characters from the Terminator series. No profit is being made.

Author: zerofret

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**Afterimage**

My candle burns at both ends,

It will not last the night,

But ah, my foes and oh, my friends –

It gives a lovely light.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Chapter 1: Darkroom 

2029 

Blood and antiseptic. The two odours co-mingled in the heavy, stagnant air. Of the one he had no doubt; of the other, he was less sure. Real antiseptic? He didn't even know what they devised it from...or if the concoction actually worked. Maybe it was all just a head game played by the doctors and surgeons, a placebo administered to wounds to make people _think _they were healing. Perhaps all the while, the true healing factor was the power of human belief. Perhaps. The important thing was that often enough this medical procedure worked. Thank God for human ingenuity, it would always make itself known. But he realized that no anti-infection agent, either real or imagined, was likely to help him.

His head ached and the ringing in his ears seemed to be ceaseless. That was the good news. At least it dulled the even less pleasant sounds of the makeshift hospital ward he lay in. He tried to raise his head to get a look at his surroundings; the attempt was unsuccessful. Sighing, he scrubbed a hand down his face and listened to it rasp harshly over his unshaven cheeks...a percussive counterpoint to the dissonant cacophony in his head.

Stan Morsky was a sixty-five year old man. In a reasonably sane world, he'd be welcoming retirement. But that kind of world didn't exist anymore; or maybe the definition of the word was simply evolving. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember what a sane world had been like, or if there had ever really been one.

There _had _been one, of course...long before now. Before the machine uprising. Before the nuclear cataclysm had decimated the planet. Before Skynet.

Before Judgment Day.

But now...now humans scurried like rats through the debris of their once great cities. Now there was only survival and the war against the machines. It was that struggle that had brought him to where he now was.

From across the room, he could hear General John Connor speaking in muted tones to the medics on duty. He sounded tired, and he had good reason to. It had been a difficult week, even more physically and emotionally draining than usual, but ultimately it had been a triumphant week. He smiled inwardly; had he said "week"? Perhaps time, and the accompanying human need to segment it, still did mean something. The never-ending purgatory of the post-Judgment Day world sometimes called that into question. Minutes, hours, days...they seemed to lose meaning in the constant state of siege. But the habits of the old world died hard.

Now, however, spirits were rising. They had John Connor to thank for that. The Human Resistance, under Connor's command, was now enjoying its most convincing victories yet. Morsky had served as a strategic aide to Connor for some years now. Despite a lack of military experience in his pre-Judgment Day life, he had come to exhibit considerable tactical skill. But he wasn't on Connor's level; no one else was. The commander's talent in that particular arena was nothing short of otherworldly. He had an uncanny sense for knowing what Skynet would do. John, it seemed, could read the very machine mind of the malevolent AI. This allowed him to organize strikes that now had the human forces making remarkable inroads. Connor had stood toe to toe with the great machine General and the scales had tipped, slowly but inexorably, toward humanity.

As part of the General's inner strategic command circle, Stan had assisted in mapping out battle tactics for the most recent Resistance campaign. It had succeeded beyond anything thought possible. Skynet's defense grid had been smashed...and now optimism reigned. For the first time, people truly believed the war could be won. It was entirely possible that Skynet was experiencing its own Judgment Day.

But as with all great victories and campaigns won, sporadic skirmishing continued as Skynet struggled to regroup. That was when Stan had met his own personal Waterloo. It had happened on a recon mission not far from the main Resistance base. Small, roving bands of T-800 units had been seen in the area, and Stan's scouting party had been given orders to track their movements. The soldiers were aware of how vital it was to keep the immediate area near the base secure.

While on patrol, Stan and Sgt. Dana Robinson had broken off from the main unit; they had moved toward a large strewn-out junk heap of tangled metal. They had then split up, each one of them exploring an avenue of rusted out cars and fallen brick and mortar. At the far end of the debris field, he had reached a dead end, and had then doubled back to meet Robinson at the point of origin. After she had arrived, Stan had radioed their intention of joining up once more with the other team members.

One step further – and far too late – he had discovered he hadn't yet even re-teamed with Robinson...and he never would. This realization had come as a long blade had flashed out and driven toward his heart. He had been shocked to encounter a T-1000; they weren't field units. Very few of them were even known to exist; for most soldiers, they were little more than a rumour. That rumour had become grim reality for Stan. A sudden image had flashed in his mind of the sheathed knife on Robinson's belt; it explained everything. The machine had obviously sampled it after terminating the sergeant.

Maybe this was yet another good sign for the Resistance, Stan had thought, feeling oddly calm, as he had watched the gleaming weapon drive toward him. Skynet usually won the day through the sheer brute force of its machine battalion onslaught. But now maybe it had to resort to stealth -- and hit and run trickery -- to hold the humans at bay while it licked its wounds.

In this instance, though, the trickery had worked. The surprise factor had frozen Stan for one eternal second. He had managed to dodge away from the initial sharp thrust of cold steel toward his heart; but he wasn't as quick as he had once been. He actually _heard _the blade, parting the air around him, before hefeltit. It swept through in a wide arc, slicing at his gut.

From there on in, he had been aware of very little. Sharpshooters Hudson and Croft, appearing seemingly from nowhere, had started a steady barrage of fire to keep the thing off balance, while Vidro and Smyth had advanced to drag him to safety. As he had bounced and rattled over rock and glass, he had wondered idly – uselessly – who would retrieve Robinson. _Note to Connor...more than one T-1000 uni...; _the thought had trailed off unfinished, as he lost consciousness.

He had been lying on a hospital cot ever since; he wasn't exactly sure how long that had been. The bleeding had been controlled somehow. Surgery had been performed, and he could only be glad he didn't remember that. Still, he knew his chances weren't good. The doctors would place priority on those who were considered savable. He didn't need a sharp instinct to know that he wasn't in that category.

His thoughts now turned back to the successful military strike. Even with the defense grid smashed, the ultimate victory had remained in peril. Connor had received intelligence that a T-800 infiltration unit Terminator had been sent through Skynet's Time Displacement Equipment. The news hadn't come as a surprise to him. He had absorbed the information about the year and destination programmed into the TDE with a quiet, grim acceptance. It seemed he already knew. The machine assassin's target would be John's own mother...its mission: terminate Sarah Connor to ensure that Skynet's nemesis – John Connor – would never exist.

A young Sergeant named Kyle Reese had been dispatched through the TDE to locate Sarah Connor, and protect her from the T-800. Stan wasn't privy to all the details of the mission, but he didn't need to be told; he knew. Reese's mission would send him back through time to the year 1984.

_1984. _Even with all of its Orwellian connotations, it had been a far more innocent time. Could Orwell's nightmarish future have been any worse that the actual reality faced by the Judgment Day survivors? Still, he didn't envy Reese his mission; he knew the carnage that awaited him.

Reese had gone despite knowing that it was a one-way trip; he would never return. And yet he had volunteered. _Although, who would want to come back to this Godforsaken time, _Stan mused. But for Reese, it was all he had ever known – this was home. He had known his sacrifice could seal the victory, and he had actively sought out the responsibility. There was little doubt that he was the man for the job. Stan was sure of it; he had full confidence in Reese.

A figure now swam into his frame of vision. It was The Great Man himself. Connor was studying the medical chart that hung at the base of Stan's cot. Stan knew how it read. "Morsky, Stanley – Colonel", it would announce at the top. Below that would be scribblings of a medical nature, loosely translating to "not long for this world".

"Stan," John greeted him.

Stan attempted a salute, but Connor waved off the formality.

"Took one for the team, did you?" He was trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to sound conversational.

"I was blocking The Plate, sir," Stan replied, referring glibly to his patrol unit's efforts to keep the Resistance base perimeter secure. The base had been code named Home Plate by the soldiers. Skynet could vapourize America, but "Americana" would live on. There would always be baseball and apple pie, if only in theory. Stan continued now in that vein.

"I guess the Dodgers won't be calling any time soon, then?" he joked weakly.

"Not with you on the DL. LoDuca's not out of a job just yet."

The two men shared a laugh at the seemingly ancient history. John's smile then vanished as Stan's chuckles gave way to uncontrolled coughing. Ominous, congested sounds emerged from his lungs and throat. John was looking grave. _Yeah, it's definitely bad, _Stan thought. If he didn't already know it, he could certainly read it in the General's eyes right now.

"Get your rest," John encouraged him. Stan opened his mouth to blithely quip, "I can sleep when I'm dead", but he stopped himself. It just cut too close to home. Maybe the time for joking was over.

"Stay warm," John added. Stan nodded.

"I'll be back around to see you later."

And Stan knew he would be; John Connor was a man of his word. John clapped Stan lightly on the shoulder, so as not to bring him any further discomfort. He moved off down the ward seeking out more patients whose morale he could raise. Just the sight of Connor among them had this effect on the injured. John was a private man who generally kept to himself, but he made the effort to visit the hospital wards whenever he could be spared. He never forgot that it was real people who sacrificed themselves to carry out his plans.

As John moved from his line of sight, Stan's eyes fell on a tattered scrap of paper tacked to the wall above the cot directly opposite his own. It was a drawing, yellowed and fraying at the edges, illuminated by flickering candlelight. It represented one small part of the ongoing effort to ensure the recording of history. The Judgment Day survivors had always known that history, both written and visual, had to be preserved. Future generations -- and there was now a strong belief that there would be future generations -- had to know where they had come from. They had to be told of the baptism by fire their world had passed through. All too soon, there would be no one left who had known the pre-Judgment Day world. It would be little more than a fantastical myth, a children's bedtime story. The "old world" history books that the authorities had carefully stored in the Crystal Peak fallout shelter would take on the aura of sacred documents from a strange and ancient land.

Post-Judgment Day history had to be recorded now, as it was lived, in any way possible. Andre Robitaille, a soldier in the Resistance, was helping to lead this endeavor. He had become the Mathew Brady of his time, capturing the sights of the battlefield for posterity. But Robitaille didn't have the benefit of photographic technology. He himself became the camera, burning images into his mind's eye, and then developing them through his talented hand with bold penciled strokes onto paper. The images he revealed were straight out of gothic nightmare...legions of grinning, heavily armed T-800 endoskeletons marching relentlessly forward, and looming aerial HKs overwhelming the humans they fired down upon.

But he offered images of hope, as well, and it was just such a picture that had caught Stan's eye. It was a portrait of Sarah Connor. While always regarded with a certain degree of awe, John's physical presence among the human survivors kept him to at least some semblance of a mortal status. Not so with Sarah. She was gone now...had been gone for many years. But her legend only continued to grow. Almost like a saint, people treated this woman. Some even suggested she had been an angel, sent to guide John Connor to his destiny. _Saint Sarah, pray for us...Saint Sarah, watch over us, _Stan mused rather cynically.

Sarah hadn't witnessed Judgment Day; she had succumbed to leukemia almost five years before the end had come for most everybody else. John rarely spoke of his mother; their relationship had been a complicated one. Still, the people who spent the most time with him could recognize in John a certain relief that his mother hadn't had to see what she had worked so diligently to prevent. Failure didn't sit well with Sarah Connor.

Stan studied the drawing. The "saint" wore military fatigues. An automatic rifle rested in her hands with an easy familiarity that suggested both total knowledge of and expertise with the weapon. She looked out at the world with a calm, steady gaze of determination and defiance. Her grey eyes bespoke a steely resolve.

Robitaille had pulled the image from pre-Judgment Day memory. Chances are he had seen Sarah often on newscasts over the years. And perhaps he had seen her picture in the newspaper, as well, accompanied by reports of her criminal activities and less than stellar character. No actual photos of Sarah now remained. There had been but one, a Polaroid of a pensive looking Sarah, flanked by a large German Shepherd. The photographer was unknown. That photo had long since been entrusted to Kyle Reese; its fate was known only to him.

These people who practically revered Sarah had never known her...had never even seen her in person during her lifetime. But it was no accident that her picture hung in hospital wards. People drew hope and strength from the image; it inspired them to fight and to never give up. These were the same qualities she had instilled in her own son, to whom they owed so much. They knew that she had done her part to help guide humanity through the Dark Years.

Sarah Connor was, if not a saint, then at least a prophet. She had known what was coming – Judgment Day, the war with the machines – she had known about it all. She had prepared for it, and most importantly, she had prepared John. The human survivors didn't know how she could have known, but for them it was simply enough that she had...somehow. It further added to her myth.

Blackness started to wash over Stan now, and the vision of Sarah dimmed and blurred. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut against her challenging gaze. He allowed himself to sink...and drift...

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(Chapter 1)

A/N:

1. "First Fig", by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1920)


	2. Framing the Shot

**Afterimage**

by zerofret

Chapter 2: Framing the Shot 

Los Angeles - May 13, 1984 

Stan could see that Nick's was crowded that afternoon, as he pulled up in front of the bar. He guided his black Porsche to the curb and shifted it into "park". He could hear music and boisterous sounds of revelry spilling out the club's doors as patrons came and went. Many of them were summer term USC students, who were wasting no time getting the weekend started. He gave himself a quick check in the rearview mirror, before climbing out of the car and straightening his expensive leather jacket. Holding the car keys in his hand and consciously allowing the Porsche logo keychain to dangle from his fingertips for show, he crossed to the entrance.

He stepped into the noisy bar and started to make his way across the room, wading through a haze of blue hued smoke and an obstacle course of closely set tables. Ducking past one of the large video screens, he could see that it was set – as always – to MTV. Frankie Goes To Hollywood boomed out from it: "When two tribes go to war, A point is all you can score..." His progress was halted abruptly as he suddenly backed into a waitress. Spinning around, his hands shooting out to her waist to steady her, he pressed himself lightly against her as he squeezed by in the crowded quarters. _Nothin' but chivalry, _he smirked to himself, as he moved on.

Having successfully navigated his way across the room, he dropped into a chair at a table near the wall. He offered a greeting to his three friends who were already seated at the table. Mark Hewitt and Doug Ranford were both Engineering Studies frat boys at USC. Stan was an undergrad at USC, as well, majoring in film studies. He didn't share the frat life with his friends, opting instead for a spacious loft off campus. Alex Chang was the lone graduate of the group; the twenty-three year old was a couple of years older than the others. Stan hadn't seen him for almost a month. Just now, Al was grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.

"So?" Stan demanded.

Al grinned some more, but remained silent. Mark, already a few beers into a good time, broke the short-lived suspense.

"Guess who's the new entry level computer nerd extraordinaire at Cyberdyne Systems?" He leaned on the "s" sounds, drawing them out.

"You got it!" Stan exclaimed.

Al nodded. "I started a few weeks ago."

Stan offered his congratulations, shaking Al's hand with only the slightest raised eyebrow. Al had been heavily recruited by most of the big players in the computer industry, but – inexplicably – he had opted for the fairly small fish Cyberdyne. He had been enthused about the company showing interest in him; he just had a "feeling" about them, he had said, and he felt that their future was bright. Al wanted his _own _future to be attached to theirs. Stan hoped that Al knew what he was doing; he could have been on the fast track at IBM.

"We're taking Al to the Dodgers game and out for drinks to celebrate," Mark announced. "Right?" he said, very pointedly, toward Stan, while fanning out four tickets in his hand.

"Dodgers it is!" Stan replied agreeably. But Al had picked up on the message in Mark's tone. He understood the meaning of it immediately. Mark was indicating that if Stan already had plans for the evening, he should cancel them. And Al knew that Stan _did _have plans.

"Whoa, wait a minute," he said. "Didn't I hear that you're supposed to have a date tonight? With that waitress from Big Jeff's, right?"

He looked toward Doug, who shrugged, absolving himself of any responsibility for having leaked this information.

Stan looked at him blankly, then suddenly remembered. _Sarah! _he thought; he had totally forgotten. He _had _kind of made a date, hadn't he? He was supposed to be taking her to the Julian Lennon concert at the Hollywood Bowl. The only thing was, he didn't exactly have the tickets, even though he'd told her he did. He had thought that he'd be able to get them, but they just hadn't materialized.

As a matter of fact, a lot of his plans seemed to be going awry. Those plans had also included maybe driving up to the observatory after the concert so they could, uh..."look at the stars". But not after hearing today's news reports. Some group of punks had messed with the wrong guy up there last night, and a couple of them hadn't lived to tell the tale. The thug hadn't been caught; he was still out there somewhere...maybe not too far from the observatory. Stan wasn't going to tempt fate by heading up there – on a Friday the 13th, no less – the very night after all of that had happened.

Al broke into Stan's thoughts. "Sarah Connor, right?"

"Uh...yeah," he answered, sounding a bit distracted. He was still thinking about his best-laid plans. Mark now took a sudden interest.

"Sooooo," he broke in, "who is this Sarah?"

Stan waved a hand at Alex, indicating that he had already answered the question.

"She's a waitress at Big Jeff's," he said, matter-of-factly.

"And what does she look like?"

"Yeah, get right to the important stuff," Doug encouraged him.

Stan shrugged. "Well, she's..." He paused, and then had a sudden thought. "You remember a few weeks ago when we went to see 'Children Of the Corn'?"

"Yeah."

"She looks a lot like the actress in that movie." Nods of approval were exchanged among the other three.

"Okay," Mark conceded, and then challenged, "but are _her _curves as good as Honeycutt's?" He tapped the tickets on the table, then feigned a wind-up and threw an imaginary pitch.

Stan winked, and assured him, "Oh, they're a lot better."

"Really? Then what does she see in you?" Mark goaded him, gleefully.

Stan was prepared to brag. "Well, she thinks I look like Tom Cruise. One of the other waitresses told me she said that." He flashed a brilliant, movie star type smile, but his comment only sent the others into gales of laughter.

Tom Cruise?! Oh, the poor girl needs help. No wonder you like her!" Doug sputtered, happily. "Next thing you know, you'll be sliding around your apartment in nothing but your socks and skivvies, lip synching to Bob Seger tunes!"

After the laughter had subsided again, Mark pressed on with the interrogation, asking, "How did you meet her, anyway?"

"He came to her defense when one of the customers at Jeff's was giving her a hard time," Al said.

"Oh, so you're her _hero,_" Mark drawled, with exaggerated understanding. "It's a gratitude date. She feels obligated to you." He'd talk Stan out of this date yet, if he could.

Stan was rolling his eyes. "Gratitude date," he muttered, with disgust.

Mark was out of his seat now, launching drunkenly into his best Mick Jagger impression. "I will be your knight in shining armour-r-r..." Maybe he could embarrass Stan into changing his mind. "...riding across the desert on a fine Arab charger-r-r..."

He was starting to draw looks from people at other tables, but he didn't let it deter him. Finally, Stan gave him a quick elbow in the ribs.

"You will be mine, you will be mine, all mine," Marked squeaked – winded – before collapsing back on his chair in laughter. "Her hero...oh, that's rich."

Doug was warming to Mark's antics, and he now joined in on the merriment, singing along with him. "I'll come to your emotional rescue, I'll come to your..."

Stan turned to Al and, jabbing a thumb toward Mark and Doug, asked, "We're going to spend the whole night with these two clowns?"

"You should be spending the night with Sarah," Al replied, appealing to Stan's conscience. Across the table, the Glimmer Twins impression came to a sudden stop.

"No!" Doug and Mark protested, in unison.

"Tonight, we celebrate!" Mark insisted. Any excuse for a party, and they were already hard at it. Doug now tried a few tactics of his own.

"Come on," he cajoled, "she might be dating you just for your Porsche."

"...and she might not be," Al added, more to himself at this point than to the others.

It was of no consequence to Stan. That's what the Porsche was for, at least partly – to get girls. But he paused and thought for a moment; a night at the ballpark sounded good. In his head, he could hear the sharp crack of leather meeting lumber echoing across Chavez Ravine. He could almost smell the freshly mown grass and roasted peanuts. It was too inviting. There would be other nights for Sarah, he decided.

He held his thumb and pinkie up to the side of his face, mimicking a phone call.

"Gee, Sarah, something came up, and I just can't _possibly _get out of it..."

Doug and Mark whooped their approval; Al was looking somewhat less impressed. Stan gave him a light punch on the shoulder, "Come on, lighten up. This night is for you."

To ease the mood once more, Mark called for a final round, eyeing the waitress appreciatively and tipping her generously. When drinks were in hand, he raised his bottle in a toast.

"To Alex," he announced.

"Alex!" Doug and Stan echoed.

"And to Cyberdyne Systems."

Four Coors bottles clinked together. "Cyberdyne Systems!"

ooOOoo

Stan stepped out of the bar to search for a pay phone that he could call Sarah from. It wouldn't do to make the call from a noisy bar; that wouldn't be too convincing. He walked up the street a block or so, passing under a theatre marquee advertising Robert Redford in his new movie "The Natural". He grinned, deciding that it must be a sign that he was supposed to go to the game. But he needed to think of a good excuse to give Sarah as to why he was canceling on her.

Spotting a phone in front of a home electronics store, he cut across the street toward it. He pushed a dime into the change slot, and then fumbled in his jacket pocket for the scrap of paper he had written Sarah's number on. Sure enough, it was still there. Cradling the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, he dialed the number.

As he waited for the connection, he noticed a wall of TV monitors inside the store; they were all set on the same channel. On each one, an overenthusiastic MTV VJ was interviewing Julian Lennon. Stan frowned and told himself firmly that he would refuse to feel guilty. The interview gave way to Lennon's video of "Valotte". Stan couldn't hear the sound from where he was, but he could hear the familiar tune in his head, all the same. He began to sing along softly. "Thinking of a reason, well it's really not very hard..." He then chuckled to himself at how appropriate that line was at the moment.

"Hi there," a voice suddenly broke in. _Show time, _Stan thought.

"Sarah?...Hi, this is - "

"Ha ha ha, fooled you. You're talking to a machine," the voice continued, oblivious to him. Stan breathed an inward sigh of relief. He hadn't exactly wanted to do this in person; now he could do it the easy way. He listened to the voice of Ginger Ventura – Sarah's roommate – rattle on.

"But don't be shy, it's okay. Machines need love, too. So _talk _to it, and Ginger –that's me – or Sarah, will get back to you. Wait for the beep."

The tone sounded, giving him his cue. He hoped he sounded regretful.

"Hi, Sarah. Stan Morsky. Uh, something's come up, and it looks like I won't be able to make it tonight. I just can't get out of it. Look, I'm _really _sorry and..." _Hey, _he thought to himself, _why not keep my options open? _"...I'll make it up to you. Call you in a day or so, okay? Sorry. 'Bye."

He hung up the receiver, now breathing an audible sigh of relief. With that done, he headed back to his car.

ooOOoo

Ninety minutes later, Stan was settling into a seat down the third base line at Dodger Stadium, as Rick Honeycutt took to the mound for the home side. The lefty stared past Mets leadoff hitter Kelvin Chapman, looking for the sign from catcher Steve Yeager. The first pitch was thrown, starting an enjoyable evening for Stan; in his opinion, the game couldn't have been scripted better.

LA plated three runs in the bottom of the fifth inning, to take a comfortable 4-0 lead. But the resilient Mets charged right back to put up three runs of their own in the top half of the sixth. Stan and his friends became sideline managers, bantering amongst themselves over National League style strategy. Unknowingly, Stan was already exhibiting the beginnings of the analytical, strategic, and tactical skill that would serve him so well later in life, under much less happy circumstances. One thing was certain: Sarah Connor couldn't be further from his thoughts.

Once again, the Dodgers had an answer. They tacked on an insurance marker in the bottom of the inning, and reliever Tom Niedenfuer blanked the New Yorkers over the final three innings, to pick up the save. The final score was 5-3 for Los Angeles. Dodgers' fans were going home happy.

The pre-game drinks at Nick's – and more beers consumed at the park to wash down Dodger Dogs – made the idea of going for drinks afterwards redundant. The four friends decided to go their separate ways in the stadium parking lot. Stan strolled toward his car, tunelessly whistling "Take Me Out To the Ball Game", and listening to his boot heels ringing on the pavement. He was blissfully unaware that his perfect night was about to start unraveling.

After reaching the car, he decided he'd wait for the lot to clear a bit; he was in no hurry. He watched the parade of humanity – and flashy metal machines – stream by. He lit a cigarette, and then turned on the radio. David Bowie came on, singing about how he was never going to fall for modern love. Immediately, Stan's thoughts turned to Sarah again. He was feeling guilty about standing her up. It was too late to do anything about it now, but he hoped that he _could _make it up to her, as he had promised in his phone message. He hoped Sarah would give him that chance.

He watched as two teenaged girls walked by, eyeing them with a look that included his most winning, charming grin. Once past him, their voices carried back audibly on the breeze.

"I'll take the Porsche, but not the loser _in _it," one of them was saying to the other. Stan's mood soured a bit more. Well, they weren't that cute, and they weren't his type anyhow, he tried to convince himself. He ran a hand lovingly over the steering wheel. In fact, the "Porsche factor" could get him women ten times better than them. _Better_ _than Sarah Connor, too, for that matter, _he thought, defensively. He was starting to feel outright resentful of his guilty conscience. It wasn't something he was used to feeling.

He nudged the radio volume up a notch or two, allowing the terse crooning of Annie Lennox to drown out the girls' receding giggles.

"Sex crime...sex crime...Nine-teen eigh-ty-four ..."

Stan was still smoking out the window and brooding when a news update came on. He was only half listening to the announcer drone on.

"Reaction continues to come in regarding last week's announcement by the Soviet National Olympic Committee that it will not be sending a team to the upcoming Summer Games here in Los Angeles. The statement claimed that anti-Soviet protests were anticipated, and it further suggested that an anti-Soviet hysteria is being whipped up in the country. Other Soviet Bloc nations are expected to join the boycott. We hear now from..."

Stan pondered the idea of scoring some tickets for Olympic events. Maybe he could take Sarah to something like that. If he could get tickets at this late date, that might impress her. It could get him back into her good graces.

"In late breaking news," the announcer was now saying, "police are investigating two separate murders that occurred today in the Los Angeles area. Remarkably, the names of the two victims are almost identical. Both victims, thirty-five year old Sarah Louise Connor and twenty-four year old Sarah Ann Connor, were slain in their respective homes. Witnesses told police that a lone gunman was seen leaving the house of the former. There is no known connection between the two women. Police have yet to make an official statement on the matter, but they are appealing to Sarah J. Connor to contact them immediately. That's Sarah J. Connor; please contact Los Angeles police as soon as possible. More on this story as it becomes available."

"In sports, the Dodgers avoided the sweep in their three game set with the Mets, dusting off the visitors 5 to 3 in the final..."

Stan was staring out at the now nearly empty parking lot, stunned and unmoving. But in his mind everything was in motion. He was trying desperately to process what he had just heard. Questions were rapid firing through his mind. Sarah Louise? Sarah Ann? Did Sarah have a middle name? What _was _it?

He didn't notice as the news update ended, and the station returned to its music play list.

"I can't believe the news today," Bono sang plaintively. "I can't close my eyes and make it go away..."

Stan jumped suddenly, the forgotten cigarette in his hand having burned down to his fingers. The sting snapped him out of his stupour. He was suddenly very aware of how fast his heart was beating. Flicking the cigarette butt away, he took a deep breath and urged himself to stay calm.

"Bodies strewn across a dead end street – "

Stan reached out and snapped the radio off sharply with slightly shaking fingers. That kind of imagery he didn't need just now. Drawing another deep breath, he gripped the steering wheel and forced himself to think. What had the newscaster said? It was a thirty-five year old and a twenty-four year old. Right? Or was it...? Damn. No, he was pretty sure that was right. That allowed him to relax just a bit. Neither of them could be "his" Sarah, then; she was nineteen.

But the police were still looking for another Sarah Connor. That had to be the one he knew. _They must think she's in danger, too, _he thought. The newscast hadn't said anything about the gunman having been caught. He was suddenly reminded of the punks up at the observatory, and how their attacker hadn't been caught. The idea of Sarah being in danger caused another wave of remorse to pass through him; she should have been with him tonight. He felt suddenly protective. Did Sarah even know the police were looking for her?

He decided he'd find out, and he'd start by going to her apartment. He felt sure she'd be home. He'd stood her up; where else would she be? The arrogance of the thought was entirely lost on him. He also banished the idea that he might not get a very warm welcome from her. He could call ahead, but if he actually went there he _would _feel more like her knight in shining armour, riding to her rescue.

_Against some guy with a vendetta and a gun, _a small voice in his head protested. That made him hesitate; Stan's self-preservation compass always pointed true north. Still, it wouldn't hurt just to drive by the place and see. He gave the ignition a sudden, decisive twist, then slammed the Porsche into gear. The gleaming black missile leaped forward.

ooOOoo

Initially, Stan only cruised past the apartment complex at 309 Calder, looking for anything amiss. But all seemed to be quiet. He circled the block and slowed once more in front of the building, and then pulled the car over to the curb directly across the street. He left the engine idling for a moment, unsure of his next move. No lights shone from the second floor where Sarah's apartment was located. There was no way of knowing whether or not she or Ginger were there. _Better go check, I guess, _he thought.

He crossed to the pathway leading to the building's main entrance. As he neared the door, he remembered Sarah having told him that it was a security building; he'd have to get buzzed in. After entering through the outer door, he glanced over at the intercom board to his left, while reaching for the inner lobby door reflexively, just to see if it was unlocked. As he did so, the door suddenly exploded outward toward him, nearly coming off its hinges from the force with which it had been pushed. The blow sent him reeling backwards into the outer door, a shockwave of pain racing up his arm and into his shoulder. He heard his head connect with the glass with a resounding thud.

His momentum pushed the door open, and he stumbled back out into the night air, doubled over, clutching his arm and cursing. It had to be broken – his wrist, his arm, his elbow – _something _had to be broken. He felt like he had hit a brick wall at high speed.

Slowly, he straightened up until he once again stood fully upright. A wave of dizziness immediately threatened to overtake him, and he leaned heavily against the building for support. His eyes had watered from the pain, and he now blinked them clear, looking around to see what had happened. A man was striding down the building's front pathway, paying Stan no heed; it was like he hadn't even seen him. Stan glared after him, starting to do a slow burn. No "I'm sorry"? Not even an "Are you okay"? This guy had almost put him through a sheet of glass, and he was going to walk away like nothing happened?

"Hey!" he yelled after him, indignantly. "You nearly knocked me right through the damn door!"

The man took no notice; he didn't even break stride. His manner was businesslike and purposeful, but he didn't appear to be in any great hurry. Stan pursued him a few steps down the path.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! You nearly took my arm off, asshole!

Stan slowed and paused. He was starting to notice just how big this guy was. No, big was an understatement; huge was more like it. As the man continued down the path, Stan took measure of the massive shoulders that filled out the studded khaki jacket he wore. A deeply buried, never before needed, survival instinct warned him to think better of the situation. A confrontation with this guy was definitely not in his best interest, particularly in his current condition. He fumed, his pride smarting as much as his head and arm were, but he decided not to press the matter.

The decision, however, was then taken out of his hands. Just at that moment, the man stopped abruptly. It seemed there would be a confrontation, after all.

xxx (End Chapter 2) xxx

Chapter Notes:

1. The dialogue of both Stan's and Ginger's phone machine messages are taken directly from the movie ("The Terminator"); they aren't my creation.

2.The May 13, 1984 Dodgers vs. Mets game is an actual game that took place on that date.

3. Acknowledgement to Randall Frakes' novel of The Terminator for background information about Stan used in this story. (USC film school, Lennon concert, Tom Cruise reference, how Stan and Sarah met)

4. "Two Tribes" (Gill/Johnson/O'Toole), by Frankie Goes To Hollywood (1984)

"Emotional Rescue" (Jagger/Richards), by The Rolling Stones (1980)

"Valotte" (Lennon/Clayton/Morales), by Julian Lennon (1984)

"Modern Love" (Bowie), by David Bowie (1983)

"Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four), (Lennox/Stewart), by The Eurythmics (1984)

"Sunday Bloody Sunday" (Mullen/Clayton/Hewson/Evans), by U2 (1983)

5. Thanks to all who have been reading this. Thanks also to those who have given feedback and/or encouragement; I appreciate it! Any comments/opinions are welcome.


	3. Unfocused

**Afterimage**

by zerofret

Chapter 3: Unfocused

Stan watched warily as the stranger turned – his movements slightly stiff and deliberate – to face him. The man said nothing; he simply assessed him with a cold, analytical gaze. Stan was chilled by the flat, dead expression in those eyes. There was something indefinable in that look that made him feel like an insect pinned helplessly to a bulletin board. It was something akin to mental dissection, and it made his skin crawl. He could feel a shudder trying to pass through him, and he fought to stifle it. His instincts told him that showing weakness in front of this guy would not be a good thing.

His senses were heightened. He could feel the palms of his hands growing clammy, could almost feel the weight of the damp night air hanging heavy and close around him. _So what does this guy want? _he thought, forgetting momentarily that he was the one who had initiated this situation. Rivulets of blood ran down the back of his neck, flowing from the wound where his scalp had been opened. It made his skin itch maddeningly, but still he remained motionless.

Eternal seconds ticked by. How had he ended up here in this bizarre standoff? There was something not right about this guy, and he was regretting his decision to force a confrontation. Trying to come up with a plan of action in case things got violent, he briefly considered the knife he kept folded away in his pocket. He then cursed silently; it was so close, but so far away. The knife was tucked in his right pocket, and his right arm was useless after the collision with the door; he didn't think he could even lift it.

Instead, he raised his left hand in a placatory gesture. "Just watch where you're going next time, okay?"

He hoped he sounded amiable rather than cowardly. But he could feel blood starting to dampen his shirt collar, and he wasn't feeling too brave. He noticed the glow of the streetlight glinting off something metallic under the man's jacket. _Shit! _Stan thought, his fight-or-flight mechanism accelerating into overdrive, _that's a gun in his waistband! _How was he going to get out of this?! As before, the matter was decided for him.

Suddenly, without a word, the man wheeled away from him with the same deliberateness of movement as before, and strode off into the night. Stan – frozen to the spot – watched him go, aware for the second time that night of his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. He feared that this time it might succeed. Moments later, he heard the sounds of a car door closing and an engine roaring to life. Eventually, he remembered to breathe, and time resumed its forward march. Apparently, the stranger had somewhere to be, and he didn't have time for him. _Lucky me, _he thought, sourly.

Stan exhaled heavily, just relieved to be free of that discomfiting stare and the unknown motives behind it. That had been plain...creepy. No other word for it, really. His legs feeling rubbery, he sank down until he was sitting on the building's front step, and fished for a handkerchief in his left pocket. He held it to the back of his head to try to stem the bleeding. He was going to have one hell of a headache in the morning, but he had a strong sense that it could have been much, much worse. He cast a furtive glance down the street in the direction the man had gone, hoping that he was gone for good.

He then remembered why he had come here. A cold wave passed through him. Could that have been the guy the police were trying to protect Sarah from? Had he come here looking for her, too? Alarmed, Stan turned toward the door. It had taken some damage in the collision; there would be no need to get buzzed in. From the lobby, he pushed through the door to the stairwell, and took the steps – a couple at a time – to the second floor.

Apartment 225 was located at the end of the hallway. There didn't appear to be any sign of forced entry. He listened closely at the door for a moment, and then rapped sharply on it with his good hand.

"Sarah?" he called.

He paused and listened, but no answer was forthcoming. He knocked again, louder this time. "Sarah, are you there? It's Stan. I need to talk to you!"

He glanced down the hallway, expecting to see heads start to appear in doorways, looking to see who was making the racket. He paced, waiting for an answer, but still none came. Either no one was there, or if anyone _was _there, they didn't want him to know it. Maybe Sarah knew what was going on, and just wouldn't open the door to _anybody. _Then – for the first time – it occurred to him that Sarah might not have just stayed home tonight. She might have made a date with someone else; she could be out with some other guy right now. A small flame of jealousy flared. Whatever the case, it certainly seemed that she wasn't here.

He turned back toward the stairwell. After only a step or two, he was brought up short by a scuffling sound behind the door of #225. It was followed by a distinct thud, then silence. _Someone _was in there. He came back to the door and knocked loudly once again.

"Sarah, are you there? It's Stan. I need to talk to you. Please, it's important!" No sound came from within.

"Ginger?" he tried.

After a few more minutes of listening closely, the sound hadn't repeated. He knew there was no point in knocking again, or in staying here any longer. Cursing under his breath with frustration, he descended the stairs, trying to make sense of what he had heard behind the door. At the stairwell door, he turned right, walking through the lobby to the building's back door. After exiting, he picked up an empty cigarette package from the ground and placed it in the doorframe, so the door wouldn't close tight. He then advanced into the shadows of the building's parking garage, walking quickly through the rows of cars while scanning for Sarah's Honda Elite scooter. But it wasn't there.

A pair of car headlights suddenly snapped on near him and Stan jumped noticeably, letting out a little yelp of surprise. The car rolled slowly from its parking space, and he could hear the laughter of several voices from inside; the occupants were clearly delighted that they had scared him. "Boo!" the driver yelled, as the car cruised by.

Once Stan was alone again, he stopped to take stock of the situation. _All of this just has me a little rattled, that's all, _he told himself. First had been the news report, then his encounter in front of the building, and finally getting no answer at Sarah's, but hearing something inside the apartment. But he had to admit to himself that it was that big guy who had unnerved him the most. He ran a hand across the back of his head, where the bleeding – for the most part – had stopped. He hadn't just unnerved him; he had left him with a couple of souvenirs of tonight's events.

Finally, admitting temporary defeat, he walked back through the building until he stood once more at the front door. The inner lobby door hung askew. Stan shook his head in wonder. _Steroids or PCP? _he wondered. The broken hinges squealed a protest as he pushed the door open. All coming here had gained him was a concussion and a broken arm; that's what it felt like. No one had even noticed the brief and violent incident. He pulled the bloody handkerchief out, and scrubbed his own blood off the inside glass of the main entrance door, then exited the building.

He had to take his jacket off – gingerly easing the leather from his throbbing arm – to retrieve his car keys from the right side pocket. As he did so, one last possibility occurred to him. Earlier, when he had circled the block, he had noticed a coffee shop down the street and around the corner. That might be one final place to look for Sarah; it was a long shot, but it was worth a try. He set off at a brisk pace. The walk would do him good; the night air was bracing, and it helped to clear his head a bit.

A few minutes later, Stan stepped through the door of a twenty-four hour coffee and doughnut shop. Only two tables were occupied, each one by an individual late night snacker. Neither one was Sarah Connor. He walked down the main aisle to the back of the restaurant and pushed open the door of the women's restroom, drawing only a mildly curious look from the teen behind the counter. The restroom was unoccupied. He retraced his steps to the front of the restaurant and went to the counter.

"Coffee, please."

The teen working the counter turned toward him.

"Would you like a small, medium, or – "He broke off, his eyes widening, then recovered quickly. "...or, ah, large?"

"Make it a medium."

"Right."

The kid set about getting the coffee, stealing another quick glance over his shoulder at Stan. The strange reaction mystified Stan, but he simply busied himself in maneuvering his wallet out of his right back pocket with his left hand. This was getting to be a pain.

"Anything else with that?"

_A few aspirin, _Stan thought, but said, "No, that's it."

He paid, then headed to a booth around the corner from the counter, away from the kid's prying eyes. He let out a sigh as he settled into the seat. Sipping slowly at his coffee, he could feel the warmth of it start to relax him a bit. He brooded on the events of the past hour, able to think with more clarity now that he had slowed down for awhile. He realized he had acted rashly after hearing the radio report; there had been no point in going to Sarah's apartment. If the police were trying to contact her, the first thing they'd have done is phone her home. They would have tried that before ever making a statement for the news asking her to contact them. If he had thought before he acted, he would have concluded that she wouldn't be home. A quick phone call would have confirmed that. It was even possible that the police had taken her into protective custody.

He mused over his encounter with the stranger at the apartment complex's front entrance. That was just an accident. _It was actually me who wasn't looking where I was going, _he admitted to himself. _I was looking at the intercom board. _Sure, the guy was a bit creepy...and who pushes a door open with that kind of force? But still, it had to be an accident. Surely it was an overreaction to think that this was the very man who was hunting down Sarah Connors all over Los Angeles. And the scuffling sound behind the door of the apartment? Sarah probably had a cat, or something.

He watched the traffic streaming by outside without really seeing it; he was totally absorbed in his own thoughts. That was exactly what he had been doing the day he met Sarah. It had been about three weeks ago. He had been settled comfortably into a booth at Big Jeff's, just watching the world go by outside, as he waited for his order to be taken. An angry voice had suddenly exploded from behind him. He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving the memory, letting the scene play out in his mind as it had happened that day:

"Idiot! Ugh, look, it's all over me!"

Looking over his shoulder, Stan could see an irate man angrily wiping gravy off of a brown jacket. A blonde waitress was looking flustered; she was offering whatever help she could give.

"No!" the man snapped. "You've done enough."

"I could get a damp cloth."

"You can get the manager is what you can do."

"I'm sorry, sir. The manager isn't available right now."

He glared at her. "Well, I expect this establishment to _pay _for this. Look!" He gestured at the stain. "This will never come out. I want my jacket replaced."

He looked to his lunch companion for support; the other man nodded vigorously in agreement. The waitress was at a loss.

"It matches," Stan suddenly quipped. The waitress and the table's two occupants looked over at him. The man looked annoyed at being interrupted.

"What?" he asked, impatiently.

"The gravy," Stan said, trying to ease the tension. "At least it matches your jacket."

The man looked incredulous, then said to his friend, "Is this guy kidding me?"

The waitress was shooting him a look that told him he wasn't helping the situation.

"Come on," Stan continued, "it was an accident. She didn't mean to do it. Did you?"

The waitress's eyes widened. "Of course not!"

"There, see?" he said triumphantly.

"It's not your jacket that got ruined," the man replied, tersely.

Stan shook his head. "Yours didn't, either. That stain will come right out. You know what works good on grav – "

"Look, pal, why don't you mind your own damn business?"

The waitress was looking more harried by the second. Stan figured he'd alleviate the situation, for her sake.

"Okay," he shrugged. "I was just trying to help. It's only a little gravy, not the end of the world." He couldn't resist one final jab. "I sure hope the end of the world is more interesting than a gravy stain."

He turned and settled back into his booth. From behind him, he could hear the man's friend already having a change of heart.

"You know, if they just pay for the cleaning bill, that should cover it."

Stan grinned to himself, and tuned them out. A few minutes later, he looked up to find the same waitress standing at his table, ready to take his order. He held his hands up defensively.

"Whoa, careful now! I just had this jacket cleaned."

The joke seemed to be lost on her.

"Oh, come on..." He spotted her nametag. "...Sarah, I'm just kidding."

Looking morose, she said, "I could lose my job."

"Over that?" he scoffed.

"If the customer complains enough about it..." She let the thought trail off.

"It's a restaurant. Things like that will happen now and then."

"Maybe too often with me," she admitted.

"I don't believe that." He beamed a winning smile at her, working his charm. "I promise I won't complain about _anything_."

He placed his order and Sarah departed. When she returned, she still looked pre-occupied by the incident. As she set his burger and drink down, he said, "Don't let that ruin your day, okay? Forget it."

"I'll try," Sarah responded, in a tone that suggested she wasn't likely to forget it any time soon.

In an exaggerated, confidential whisper, Stan opined, "It was an ugly jacket, anyhow." He grinned. "You did him a favour. He should have left you a _big _tip."

He held his hands wide apart to indicate how large. For just a moment, it looked like Sarah might allow a giggle at that. He pressed his advantage.

"It's not worth worrying about. Cheer up!"

Sarah still looked a bit doubtful. Finally, he serenaded her...badly.

"Sarah smile," he sang softly. "Oh, won't you smile awhile for me, Sarah."

He was so bad that finally Sarah _did _smile; she couldn't help it.

"That's better!" he exclaimed. He looked pleased. "A little blue eyed soul will do it every time," he drawled, with satisfaction.

Ohhhh, is _that _what that was," Sarah quipped wryly, with a laugh. She clearly was in a brighter mood now. Stan wished the conversation could continue; those soft grey eyes were doing a number on him.

But Sarah had tables to wait on. She only stopped briefly once more – a few minutes later – to give him his bill. He slid it across the table toward him to see what the damage was, and then started to laugh. A short message was scrawled on the back: "About your day job. Don't give it up. Thanks. Sarah."

He scanned the restaurant, looking for Sarah, and caught her eye. Smiling, he gestured to the bill. Sarah offered back a mischievous grin of her own.

Stan was smiling to himself now, enjoying the memory. After everything that had happened tonight, he was finally starting to breathe a little easier, feel a little better. Getting lost in that memory for awhile had helped. Even his arm didn't hurt quite as much. He flexed his fingers and then his wrist, wincing as pain raced up his forearm. Well, it was a _bit _better. He had managed to convince himself there had been nothing unusual going on back at the apartment complex. His own unfortunate incident had just spooked him, that was all. It was time to call it a night, and go home.

While drinking the last of his coffee, he became aware of the sound of a siren drawing steadily nearer. A black and white sped by outside, its lights flashing. Stan felt a knot tighten again in his stomach. Okay, maybe he wasn't entirely convinced that all was well back at Sarah's apartment. _That cruiser could be going anywhere, _the rational side of himself insisted. The car wheeled around the corner and headed toward Calder Street.

He watched until the car's taillights disappeared from sight, and he was left looking at his own reflection in the window. He did a double take. It _was _his reflection, but it was practically unrecognizable. The young man looking back at him looked disheveled, drawn, and pale. His hair was matted in clumps at the back of his head where he had bled. The collar area of his white t-shirt was stained with the blood that had run down his neck, along the collar of his jacket, and into the cotton fabric beneath. He hadn't even realized he looked like this. No wonder the teen at the counter had given him such a strange look. He pulled his jacket around him and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, smoothing out the matted tangles. Then he rose to leave.

Out in the night air once again, he turned his collar up against a light misting rain that had started to fall. He walked quickly back toward his car. He'd be glad just to have this night over with. It had started out so well, with a few beers to celebrate Alex' new job, then taking in the game at Dodger Stadium. All of that had been great. He rounded the corner onto Calder Street. But after the game, the whole night had skidded rapidly downhill –

Stan halted abruptly. Further up Calder Street – in front of the apartment complex at 309 – the street was littered with police cruisers, their lights strobing. A couple of EMS vehicles also stood by. A crowd had gathered. Lights now glowed from the second floor windows where Sarah's apartment was located. Stan felt his heart plummet down to his shoes. Was this all about Sarah? Was she going to be the third Sarah Connor in the news for all the worst reasons? He fought down rising panic, then got moving again. _I should have trusted my instincts, _he berated himself. _I should have known something was wrong there. I should have had the superintendent check the apartment. I should have – _

His checklist of "should haves" was put aside as he suddenly remembered how he looked. He stopped once more and zipped his jacket all the way up. It wouldn't be too smart to arrive at a police scene in a blood soaked t-shirt. He crossed to the other side of Calder, trotting to beat the traffic, and continued up the street. Arriving in front of the apartment building, he blended into the crowd as just another curious onlooker. He listened closely to see if he could get a sense of what had happened here, but it seemed that nobody had much information.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Stan noticed activity in the building's front lobby. The lobby door and the main entrance door were being propped open. Two stretchers, each one draped in a sheet, were wheeled out. The sheets covered long black vinyl bags. Body bags. Stan's throat tightened. Suddenly, he didn't want to be anywhere near this place, nor did he want to know who occupied those bags. It was too easy to guess. There were two bodies, and two occupants lived in the apartment. Who else could it be? It had probably already been too late when he had come to the apartment before.

A middle-aged detective, a badge hanging on a cord around his neck, followed the stretchers. He stopped on the front path near the sidewalk, and watched the stretchers being loaded into vehicles. Moments later, a uniformed police officer emerged from the building, and started down the front walk. A pet carrier hung from one of his hands. The detective beckoned him over and the officer complied, setting the carrier down only a few feet from where Stan stood in the crowd. Stan squinted into the darkness behind the bars. There was something..._green _inside. He heard a scuffling noise from within; it was identical to the sound he had heard from behind the door of Sarah's apartment. Reptilian eyes now peered out from the cage, blinking stoically at the surrounding commotion. _That was what I heard? _Stan couldn't believe it. _I was talking through the door to...that?! _A sticker had been affixed to the side of the carrier. It was a standard name sticker, with "Hello, my name is" pre-printed on it. The name "Pugsley" had been printed into the blank space by hand. Stan recognized it as Sarah's printing.

The detective was gesturing to the pet carrier. "Does the iguana belong to Connor or the victim?" he asked the cop.

The cop glanced down at the carrier. "Gee, I just plain forgot to take a statement from it. Why don't you ask it?"

The detective ignored the sarcasm, muttering to himself, "If only we could...ask it about that, and a lot of other things." To the cop, he said, "Well, if it's Connor's, she'll probably be wanting it back."

"Yeah, I guana get my lizard back," the cop guffawed. "Right? Get it?"

The detective gave him a long suffering look, and sighed, "Just tell Traxler it'll take us another hour or so to wrap things up here, okay?"

"I'll do that," the cop affirmed. "I'll tell him as soon as I've checked in the lizard."

The detective couldn't resist correcting him. "Iguana."

The cop smirked. "Right. Was that on the detective's exam?"

The detective glared levelly at the smart-ass cop, then turned without a word and walked back toward the building. The iguana, for its part, continued to stare impassively from its prison. Its gaze was not unlike that of the man Stan had encountered earlier on this very spot. His gaze had been equally unwavering, cold, and impassive. Stan was starting to feel a certainty that that man was responsible for this whole scene.

The cop now looked down at his small captive. "Come on, greenie, let's go," he said, scooping up the pet carrier. He continued to chat conversationally to the animal as he walked toward a waiting police cruiser. "I'm afraid you'll have to ride in the back seat. But don't worry, you're not a suspect. Although, if you ask me, I think you've got beady, shifty eyes. You know, Vukovich is going to _love _you..." His voice trailed off, out of hearing range.

The crowd was now starting to drift away. Stan decided he shouldn't hang around for too long; after all, _someone _might have seen him insistently knocking at the door of Apartment 225 earlier that night. That could lead to questions he might not want to answer. He walked slowly to his car, now realizing how tired he was. He had had enough for tonight. His arm ached, his head ached...and something unimaginable had happened in Sarah's apartment.

_But it didn't happen to Sarah, _he thought, with relief. He had heard the detective say "Connor's or the victim's" when asking about the iguana. That meant Sarah wasn't one of the victims. Obviously, the police had located her. But it also meant it was a certainty that one of the victims was Ginger. Only this afternoon he had listened to her cheery message on the answering machine. He shuddered, wondering how Sarah was taking the news.

He guided the Porsche through darkened back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Once home, he wearily mounted the stairs to his loft. He went directly to the bathroom medicine cabinet. After shaking two aspirins from a bottle, he poured a glass of water. As he re-entered the main room, his eye was drawn to a red light that pulsed steadily on his answering machine. He cued up the tape and listened, while downing the aspirin. It was Alex, and he sounded worried.

"Stan! Did you hear that report on the news? About the Sarah Connors? Do you know if Sarah's okay? Call me!"

A mechanical voice took over. "Eleven thirty-seven p.m.," it informed him. That was over an hour ago.

"Tomorrow, buddy," Stan sighed, as he re-set the tape. "I'll catch up with you tomorrow." He was just too tired to call anyone right now.

He kicked off his boots and shrugged carefully out of his jacket, then collapsed onto the bed. He immediately fell into a fitful sleep, marred by disturbing dreams of all-seeing, implacable eyes that saw into the depth of his being.

ooOOoo

Stan was awakened the next day by rays of sunlight slanting in through the window. Something weighed heavily on his chest, and he raised his eyelids to find a pair of cold and unforgiving eyes staring directly into his own.

"Oops," he rasped groggily. "I forgot to feed you when I came in last night, didn't I?" He chuckled. "Is kitty starving?"

Stan yawned. The cat – now looking even more affronted – rose, stretched languidly, and dropped to the floor.

"Sorry, Dewey" Stan offered. "I'll get right on that mouthwash."

The scrawny stray tiger-striped kitten that he had taken in a year ago and dubbed "Cat-mandu" was now a healthy, full-grown cat. He usually called it by its simpler, shorter nickname. Dewey now responded with an indignant tail flip and wandered away. Wondering how long he had slept, Stan raised an arm to look at his watch. "Damn," he exclaimed softly. The crystal was smashed and one of the hands had been broken off. The previous night's events started to filter back to him. The watch must have been another casualty of his collision with the lobby door.

He sat up slowly – carefully – but still felt a wave of vertigo sweep through him. He kept still, patiently waiting for it to pass. His arm felt like it had been worked over with a Louisville Slugger; he could barely move it. His only order of business on this Saturday should be to go to a hospital emergency ward and get himself checked out. But he still needed to know what the outcome of last night had been for Sarah.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 11:40 a.m. _Just in time for some noon news...if I can manage to get to the TV in twenty minutes. _In his current condition, that seemed like a tall order. He was now feeling other aches and pains he hadn't been aware of last night. Easing himself off the bed, he stood up slowly to avoid more dizziness. He padded over to the TV and turned it on, wincing as a loud game show came blaring into the room. He adjusted the volume, and then busied himself with other tasks as he waited for the news.

After turning the coffee maker on, he stepped into the bathroom. The sight of the bloodstained t-shirt in the mirror made him grimace. He removed it, and set to washing up a bit. Returning to the main room, he selected a fresh shirt and put it on. After dishing out some food for Dewey and pouring himself a coffee, he settled onto the couch in front of the TV.

With a few sips of coffee in him, he was starting to feel a bit more awake. He turned his attention to the grim-expressioned anchorwoman on the screen.

"This hour's top story," she was saying. "A still unidentified lone gunman continued to terrorize the city last night, claiming victims in three different locations." She went on to describe the storming of a police station by the man, with seventeen police officers losing their lives in the ensuing shootout.

"Earlier last night, the same man also exchanged gunfire with another man at Tech Noir night club." A camera shot was panning across the club; it looked like a hurricane had swept through it. "The official number of casualties has yet to be released, but it has been confirmed that there were deaths."

The camera cut to a street shot of a trendy looking young woman, distinctly "Valley" in her mannerisms. She seemed to be somewhat shaken, and she was bleeding from a cut on her forehead. Microphones from three local media outlets were pointed toward her.

"The one guy looked like he was going to shoot this girl," she explained breathlessly, "and the other guy just suddenly pulled this shotgun out from under his coat...a trench coat, you know? Then you could just hear all these shots...more than one gun firing. It was _so _loud! Nobody knew what was going on. People just started screaming and running to the exits...everybody pushing and stepping on other people. Some guy just threw me out of his way, up against the wall. That's how I got this." She gestured to the cut. "But I managed to get out."

She paused, a grave look on her face. "Not everybody did..."

The anchorwoman now continued, "Police suspect that the same gunman is responsible for a double homicide in a Calder Street apartment last night." Stan felt a shot of adrenaline run through him; this was it. "Twenty year old Ginger Ventura was shot multiple times; twenty five year old Matthew Buchanan received severe trauma to the head and body. Police have released this picture of the suspect, which was taken last night by a police station security camera."

A grainy picture of the perpetrator appeared on the screen, causing Stan's breath to catch in his throat. It was him! It was the man he had had the bizarre encounter with at the apartment complex last night. He was wearing a different jacket – a black leather one – and for some reason he was wearing sunglasses. An automatic rifle was in his raised hand, yet he wore the same unfazed expression Stan had seen last night. He didn't even have to see his eyes to know that. It was as if a shootout in a police station was of no greater concern to him than a stroll down the street. Stan had suspected his involvement in the double murder at the apartment, but the truth of it still came as a shock. He had drawn back instinctively when the picture had appeared on the screen, but he now sat forward and scrutinized the man closely.

"The gunman is still at large at this hour, and he is suspected in three other homicides. Police are warning the public that this man is heavily armed and very dangerous; he absolutely should _not _be approached for any reason. Authorities have reason to believe that his intended victim is nineteen-year-old Sarah J. Connor."

A picture of Sarah appeared on the screen. It had likely been taken at the police station the previous night, as well. She looked tired, drawn, scared.

"The motive is unknown. Connor went missing from the homicide division after the gunman's rampage. She had been there under protective custody. She is believed to be in the company of this man..."

A third picture appeared. It showed a young man, handsome, but with a distinctly haunted look. He sat on a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back. He was clearly agitated, leaning forward toward the camera, and yelling. Stan assessed him critically. Sarah was with him? He looked half crazed!

"...Kyle Reese was being held for questioning and psychiatric assessment. Police have declined to comment on whether or not this is considered to be a hostage situation. Anyone who has information on their whereabouts should contact police at..."

Stan listened numbly, finally closing his eyes and lowering his head into his hands. This was a lot – maybe too much – to absorb. So the one victimhadbeen Ginger, and the other was her boyfriend Matt. He had suffered "severe trauma to the head and body". Well, he could sure believe that. He thought about how the man, with seemingly little effort, had pushed the lobby door open with such force that it had thrown Stan back against the outer door like a rag doll. _But he had good reason to be in a hurry, _Stan thought, _and he didn't want anybody to get in his way. It's a lousy way to be inconspicuous, though. _He could almost still feel that moment of impact, and hear the sickening thud of his head meeting the glass. He recoiled from the thought.

And police were warning that this man absolutely should not be approached. "Now you tell me," Stan muttered out loud. He was thinking about how he had pursued the stranger down the front walk, yelling at him and seeking a confrontation. He remembered being rooted to the spot by his blood chilling stare, and the sense that he was being stared _into, _layers of his mind being peeled back one by one. He knew he didn't want to experience that feeling ever again. Considering how many victims the man had left in his wake last night – the path of carnage he had strewn through the city – Stan realized that he had been miraculously lucky. He easily could have been just one more victim.

But still..._why _did he want Sarah Connor? And Sarah...now missing again. She was presumed to be in the company of an unstable looking criminal escapee, maybe even his hostage. Was he possibly in league with the gunman? They both seemed to be after her. What was going _on?! _

It seemed to Stan that the world had gone crazy.

ooOOoo

He arrived home late in the afternoon, with stitches in his scalp, his arm in a sling, and a bottle of prescription painkillers in his pocket. He had told the emergency room doctor that it had been a simple barroom disagreement that had gotten out of hand.

"He was a Giants fan," Stan had shrugged, offering a weak grin. _More like he was a giant himself, _he had thought, grimly. The doctor had nodded non-comitally. He had worked in emergency long enough to know when people were or weren't being truthful about how they came by their injuries. He didn't think this guy was being quite on the level, but it was his business. He had tended to the injuries, and had then provided a prescription.

Stan now intended to take advantage of the tablets, and sleep the night away. He first made a quick call to Alex to tell him as much as he knew, from what he had heard on the news. He left out the part about his own encounter with a homicidal maniac; he hadn't yet come to terms with that part himself.

He had briefly considered calling the police, as well. After all, he could definitively place the gunman at the scene of 309 Calder Street on Friday night. After debating the issue inwardly for a while, he had ultimately rejected the idea, deciding that it was best for him not to get involved. He was loath to admit, even to himself, that self-interest played the biggest role in his decision. He had considered that he might have to testify in court about the case, with that awful, intimidating stare boring into him the entire time. He thought he'd do just about anything to avoid that.

ooOOoo

He woke up the next morning feeling considerably better. The painkillers had him feeling a bit fuzzy, but they were doing the job. He had slept well, and his bad dreams of the previous night hadn't recurred.

A breakfast hour newscast reported that Sarah Connor had been located. She was safe, and was recovering in the hospital from injuries she had sustained. The man she had been with was dead; the cause of death was not yet being stated. The whereabouts of the gunman was unknown. The details still appeared to be sketchy; it seemed the climactic events of the two-day pursuit had happened mere hours ago.

Stan felt relief at the news, but it was tempered with worry. Sarah might be safe, but for how long? If the gunman was still at large, the nightmare might not be over. He was sure that was why they hadn't mentioned what hospital she had been taken to.

But he felt somehow certain that his own part in these events was over...in every way. As he looked at the picture of Sarah that was showing on the TV screen, he could sense inherently that any possibility there had been for the two of them to get together was now gone. He knew he would never make the follow-up phone call that he had promised. What's more, he knew that Sarah probably wouldn't even notice. Everything was different now. She had been through a trauma, and it was going to take her some time to get over it.

Stan was only half right, though; he and Sarah never _would _get together. Sarah Connor had passed quickly into and back out of his life. But he wouldn't forget her anytime soon. Although she was gone, she would remain vivid in his memory, like an afterimage that lingers before the eyes, even after its light source has ceased.

His memories of her would always be inextricably connected to the many questions he felt sure he would never have answers to. Why did the gunman want Sarah? What had become of him? Who was the mysterious stranger Sarah had disappeared with, and how had he died? Where had Sarah been found? He could only speculate about the answers to his questions.

But Stan was wrong in believing that his own involvement in the bizarre happenings was over. The strange series of events that had begun in May of 1984 would find their way back to him again, and draw him once more into their dizzying vortex.

xxx (End Chapter 3) xxx

Chapter Notes:

1. "Sara Smile" (Hall), by Hall & Oates (1975)

2. This story is projected to be eight chapters.


	4. Soft Focus

**Afterimage**

by zerofret

Chapter 4: Soft Focus 

October 15, 1988 - 

Stan was in particularly high spirits that day. Not only was it a beautiful autumn Saturday morning, but some very good news had also come his way. He had qualified for a generous amount of grant money for his next film project. He was starting to break through and make a name for himself in L.A.'s notoriously competitive entertainment industry.

He was walking to his car in a shopping mall parking lot, when the voice – familiar and full of good humour – came from behind him.

"Stan the mannnnnn."

Stan turned to see Alex Chang climbing from a car he had just walked by. He hadn't seen Al in at least two years. His group of USC friends had drifted apart after graduation, each one busy establishing his place in the world. Now came this chance encounter. Stan broke into a delighted grin; he was genuinely, and pleasantly, surprised.

"Oh man, is that really you?" he asked, disbelievingly. "It has been _way_ too long!"

The two shook hands warmly. It looked to Stan like life was treating Al pretty good. He wore sharp looking clothes under an expensive trench coat, and he exuded an air of confidence. It seemed the computer industry agreed with him quite nicely.

"Yours?" he asked, running a hand lightly over the BMW Al had gotten out of.

"Yeah. I've been driving it for about a year now."

Stan nodded approvingly. "It's a beaut." He shook his head. "I still can't believe I ran into you. What's it been…a couple of years? We really have to get together sometime soon and do some catching up."

Al nodded in agreement, then asked, "What do you have on for tonight?"

"Tonight?" Stan laughed, a bit surprised. "What did you have in mind?"

"How about taking in a ball game? Dodgers, just like old times."

Stan regarded his friend skeptically, wondering if he was joking. "Tonight? The first game of the World Series? There wouldn't be a ticket left anywhere!"

Al waved a hand dismissively. "No, that's not a problem."

Stan raised an eyebrow, hopeful. "You have tickets? What, did someone cancel on you?"

"No. Actually, Cyberdyne has a corporate box," Al replied offhandedly.

"Whoa!" Stan exclaimed. "Mr. Big Business Man! Mr. Major Player! A corporate box, no less. Looks like you're living the good life!"

Al took the good-natured ribbing with a smile. "So what do you say?" he asked. "Are we on?"

"Are you kidding? I'm there!"

"Great!" Al then added a cautionary note. "You realize the A's are probably going to crush us, right?"

Stan clapped him on the shoulder. "Have faith, buddy," he said optimistically. "Have faith."

ooOOoo

Later that evening, Stan was duly impressed as Alex ushered him into a luxury suite on Dodger Stadium's 200 Level. He paused for a moment to absorb the lush surroundings: carpeting, comfortable looking sofas, soft lighting, a catered buffet spread across two tables.

"Nice digs," he commented casually to Alex.

"Be it ever so humble…" Al replied in kind. He watched Stan taking it all in, knowing his real reaction was still to come. Stan's head might as well have been on a swivel; when he turned once more to Al, he had dropped the affected cool demeanor.

"This is amazing! It really is. I'm impressed."

Al smiled. "Well, it's one of the perks of working at Cyberdyne."

"Great perk. _I'll _work for them," Stan kidded.

Al laughed. "Why don't we grab some drinks, and I'll introduce you to some people," he suggested.

"Lead the way."

For the next few minutes they mingled with others in the suite. Stan met a number of Al's co-workers. He noted that they were, on average, a surprisingly young group…even the execs. Cyberdyne, it seemed, was cultivating an image of youthful and eager workers, all exceptionally bright and looking to make their mark on the world. That was certainly what they had seen in Al four and a half years ago.

Stan wandered over to where the suite opened out on to the stadium. Cyberdyne's seating overlooked the first base line. It was looking like a sellout, just as he had expected it would be. The air was charged with excitement and anticipation; the Fall Classic had come to Los Angeles for the first time since 1981. And it would be an all-California affair, with the Dodgers taking on the Oakland Athletics.

Al appeared at his shoulder, also taking in the sights and sounds of the rapidly filling stadium. "Should we get our seats?" he asked. He gestured at the tiered seating area directly in front of the suite. There were about five rows of theatre style seats; an aisle ran down the middle of them.

"Sure. They'll be starting the pre-game ceremonies soon."

Al took a few steps down the aisle stairs, then stopped and pointed at the second row from the back on the right hand side. Stan nodded his agreement. Al started to move into the row, then stopped again, looking to his left. Stan glanced over and saw a man sitting across the aisle in the same row as theirs. Worksheets and files were spread out on his lap, and on the seats to either side of him. He was deeply immersed in their contents. Al chuckled at the sight.

"Hey, Miles," he greeted him, "glad to see you could leave your work for awhile and come and enjoy the game."

The man glanced sheepishly at the mountain of paper work spread out around him. "Come on, now," he replied good-naturedly, "it hasn't even started yet. I'm just keeping busy."

"Yeah, I can see that. Is Tarissa with you?"

"No. She said she didn't think she felt up to a long night out."

"Everything's okay, though?" Al's voice held a note of concern.

"Oh, yeah, she's fine."

"That's good. How far along is she now?"

The other man's face lit up. "Five months," he answered with a wide smile.

"Five months," Al repeated. "You ready?"

He laughed. "I hope so. I'm excited, that's for sure."

Al gestured to Stan now. "This is Stan Morsky, a friend of mine from my university days." To Stan he said, "This is Miles Dyson. He's in the Special Projects division with me. He and his wife are expecting their first child."

Dyson extended a hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," Stan said, as they shook hands. "And congratulations."

"Thanks," Dyson replied, beaming. "Are you in the computer industry, as well?"

"No, the film business, actually. Writing, directing…that kind of thing."

Dyson looked rather impressed. "Really? I've been out here in L.A. for awhile, but this is the first time I've met anyone from the film industry."

"Well, I'm still getting established, really. I've done some documentary work, and some film shorts. I'm working my way up to features. Where were you before you came to L.A.?"

"Cyberdyne brought me out here about a year and a half ago from Detroit."

"We recruited him right out of grad school," Al confirmed. "We weren't going to let someone else get him first. He started out as a lab assistant, but I convinced Simmons and Kroll – they're the partners – to assign him to Special Projects."

Down on the field the player introductions were just about finished. The anthem singer was being announced.

"We better get to our seats," Al said. "Put that work away and relax for a night, Miles. Tarissa would want you to."

Dyson indulged Al with a nod and a smile, but he made no move to gather up the paperwork. Stan and Al moved back across the aisle to the seats they had chosen earlier. Stan doffed his Dodgers cap as the first notes of the anthem rang through the stadium. All of this – getting to go to a World Series game, visiting with a friend that he hadn't seen in a long time – was an unexpected bonus, and he intended to enjoy it to the fullest. When the anthem ended, Stan looked over at Al while tugging his cap back down on his head.

"Play ball!" they said simultaneously. Laughing, they settled down into their seats.

When the game started, it looked like things might go south early. The Dodgers got into a bases loaded jam in the top of the first inning. Al shot Stan a grim "I-told-you-so" look, and Stan was reminded of his friend's dire prediction from earlier that morning. To their delight, though, L.A. escaped the situation without a single run being scored. In the bottom of the inning, the Dodgers then tagged Oakland starter Dave Stewart for two runs. The stadium crowd exploded into wild cheers.

But the second inning brought more problems. Once again Oakland filled the bases, and a tense crowd waited to see if the escape act could be pulled a second time. It wasn't to be. Slugger Jose Canseco strode to the plate and promptly launched a grand slam home run, for a 4-2 Oakland lead. It seemed the rout was on for the heavily favoured power hitting Athletics.

"Crussssshhhhed," Al lamented, as he watched a stream of A's circle the bases. Stan, however, wasn't quite ready to concede defeat.

"It's early yet."

It did seem like a good time for he and Al to start doing some catching up of their own, though. They ordered a couple of beers, which were served to them at their seats. Stan was loving the special treatment. He took a gulp of his drink.

"I could get used to this," he commented happily.

"What are you talking about? You've always had the best of everything. You were driving a Porsche in your university days. Not too many students doing that."

"Yeah," Stan admitted, "but that was on my Dad's dime. I'm going it alone now."

"And how _is _it going?"

"It's good. Things are on schedule, you know?"

He detailed for Al his early forays into the film business after graduating from USC. He had started by assisting on other directors' film sets, learning as he went. Then he had started taking on small projects of his own, becoming more ambitious each time out. His documentaries and short films had generated some buzz; he was considered someone to watch. He finished by telling Al about the grant money he had qualified for.

"I think I'm ready to do a feature," he enthused.

Al nodded. "Big step," he commented.

"Yeah, but it's time."

"That's great, Stan. You have to show me some of your work some time, I'd like to see it." He raised his glass to him in a friendly salute and winked. "I'm going to be able to say I knew you when."

"Hey, look who's talking," Stan laughed. "Cyberdyne's 'golden boy'…they couldn't wait to get their hands on you. You climbed straight up through their ranks, and you're already supervising on some of their top projects! That, my friend, is success," he averred, lifting his own glass in a toast.

"We're just a regular mutual admiration society," Al deadpanned.

"Right," Stan laughed. He drained the last of his beer, then sat silent for awhile, watching the game and looking thoughtful.

"What?" Al prodded him. He knew that look; it meant the wheels were turning.

"I was thinking…" Stan began.

"Uh oh."

"No, seriously, I have an idea. What if we could work on a project together, you and me?"

"How could we do that?"

"I was thinking that Cyberdyne Systems would be a great subject for a documentary. I mean, Cyberdyne just kind of came out of nowhere and shot straight to the top of the corporate world. In the four years you've worked there, actually."

Al's cheery mood seemed to have been dampened somewhat. "It had nothing to do with _me_," he said quietly.

But Stan was warming to his subject now. He hoped to infect Al with his enthusiasm. "Yeah, but you were there during that rise to the top, you were part of it. You'd have some insight into some of the reasons why it happened." He detailed his angle.

"Cyberdyne – the little company that could. That type of thing. Suddenly, the company's stock is skyrocketing, and it's moving into a brand new high-tech building. What's the secret? What did they do right? A lot of people would like to know the story behind Cyberdyne's sudden rise in the computer industry. That's where you come in."

A touch of alarm flared in Al's eyes. "Me?"

Stan nodded an affirmative. "You. Remember back in '84 when you were interviewing for the job with them? You passed up two or three big-ticket companies to go with Cyberdyne. I thought you were crazy, by the way."

He grinned, and Al offered a weak smile back.

"But you said you just had a feeling about them, that they had a bright future. And you were right. How did you know?"

Al shrugged. "I just played a hunch…a strong one."

"Come on, you didn't stake your whole future career on a hunch. There had to be more to it."

"What can I tell you? They just seemed to be well organized and forward thinking. The company was heading in a new direction, more high tech. But it was just a feeling I had; I didn't _know_ all of this was going to happen. I can't tell the future. No one can, can they?"

"You came damn close."

"Educated guess."

Stan waved a hand. "Okay, it doesn't matter. Anyhow, you'd be our guide – so to speak – in the documentary."

"Guide," Al repeated, as if he were trying the word on for size. "_In _the documentary?"

"You're not camera shy, are you? You'd be the main interview subject. You'd guide the camera crew around the building, give some company history, and explain the various divisions and what goes on in each one. Things like that."

"I can't really give the okay for something like that. I'm not authorized." Al looked down, studying his hands. He seemed to be trying to still his nervously fidgeting fingers.

"You could take the idea to the partners, though, right? They might love it; it'd be great publicity. What do you say?"

Al remained evasive. "I'm not sure it's really a good time for it."

He had kept his voice low since the subject had turned to Cyberdyne, and he had periodically cast quick, nervous glances around the box and over his shoulder. Stan was starting to realize that Alex was less than comfortable with this line of conversation. He took a look around himself, but didn't see anything unusual. The other Cyberdyne employees and their guests were involved in the game. To their left, Dyson was engrossed in his files.

He took only a brief look over his shoulder because he knew that no one had taken the seats behind them. But something caught his eye and he looked back again. A man in a suit – not dressed for a ball game – was sitting behind the box seats, just inside the entrance to the suite. Al hadn't seen him around before the game; he hadn't been introduced to him. He had one hand held to his ear, and -- rather than watching the game -- he seemed to be watching Al and Stan. Having been caught in the act when Stan looked around, he now pointedly scratched behind his ear, and then dropped his hand casually back to his side. He nodded to Stan, giving him a pleasant smile that nevertheless looked a bit stiff and forced. He nodded to the man in return, then turned around again feeling vaguely uneasy.

It seemed Cyberdyne must keep a close eye on their employees. Maybe they didn't want them saying much about their work there. _Particularly not to a filmmaker, _Stan mused. He tried to dismiss the thought as unfounded paranoia, but it persisted. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering if the whole box was wired. He was sure the man up behind them was wearing an earpiece. Trying to glance around inconspicuously, he looked for signs of listening devices.

Stan concluded that Cyberdyne must be into some extremely sensitive and secret projects. Were they working for the military, maybe? At Al's level in the company, he would know a lot of the specifics about their various projects. But having achieved that level in the company, did he really need to be watched? Didn't Cyberdyne trust their employees? Stan accepted, though, that the inner workings of the company were off limits as a topic of conversation. He decided to ease the pressure on Al by changing the subject. He tried a little nostalgia.

"You know, the last time we took in a Dodgers game together was that night I cancelled the date with Sarah Connor. Back in '84, remember? Then she was in the news all that weekend."

Al didn't answer; he was squinting into the distance, as if he was trying to remember.

"Sarah Connor," he said slowly. "Right."

There was no recognition in his voice. Stan started to wonder if Al really _didn't_ remember; he found that hard to believe. But then Al continued.

"Yeah, that was one strange weekend." He paused. "Crazy, really."

Stan nodded in agreement. "I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn't – "

A sudden explosion of cheers drew their attention back to the field. Stan noticed that even Dyson looked up momentarily. The Dodgers had scored, and they were now down by only one run. It was 4-3 with three innings remaining.

"Think a miracle's brewing?" Al joked.

"Let's hope."

They let the conversation lapse for awhile, turning their full attention to the game. A few minutes later, when the seventh inning stretch arrived, Stan headed out to the concourse to stretch his legs a bit, and to hunt down some souvenirs. As he passed through the suite, he saw no sign of the man who had been watching them. By the time he returned, Al's good mood seemed to be fully restored. He had ordered fresh drinks for them. It seemed to Stan that the previous drinks were having an effect, too. As the game headed into the late innings, Al opened up and became talkative. He picked up their conversation from where they had left off.

"Did you ever see Sarah again – I mean, get to talk to her, that is – after all of that happened?"

Stan shook his head emphatically. "Not once. I think I knew it would be that way, too."

"It must have been a nightmare for her."

"Yeah." Stan was staring into his beer, re-visiting some of the guilt he had sometimes felt about his treatment of Sarah all those years ago.

"She ended up in the hospital by the end of that weekend."

Stan looked up. "I heard that. The news didn't say much about it, but it did mention that. I think it was mostly precautionary, though, wasn't it?"

"Actually, she had to have surgery."

Stan's surprise showed. "You're kidding! What kind?"

"She had a pretty serious leg injury," Al said, unconsciously tapping his own leg in demonstration. "Her left one."

"I didn't hear anything about that."

"It involved shattered bone. They even had to put a metal pin in her leg to stabilize it."

Stan was staring wide-eyed at Al, all curiosity. "How do you know this? Have you talked to Sarah since it happened?"

It seemed like an invisible curtain suddenly dropped over Al's features, leaving his expression totally blank. "No," he said, shaking his head. He snuck a look back over his shoulder toward the suite. "I read it in the paper, I think…the week after. Yeah, I'm sure that's where I saw it."

"Wow," was all Stan could manage.

He wasn't sure what more he could say, and he was preoccupied by the distinct feeling of unease that was slowly uncoiling inside him. He had bought every single L.A. newspaper each day for a month after that weekend, scouring them carefully for follow-up news stories that would shed some light on the bizarre events. But he had come up almost empty; few details had been released. So how did Alex know such specific details about what had happened to Sarah?

Inwardly, he gave himself a firm shake. Did it matter? If he said he had read about it in the paper, then he probably had. Maybe some more details had come out later. Why was he feeling so paranoid?

He returned his attention to the game, watching reliever Alejandro Pena hold the A's at bay in the top of the ninth. But his heart sank as Oakland's all-but-invincible closer took to the mound for the bottom half of the inning.

"Eckersly," Stan groaned.

"Hey, we still have three outs," Al countered. "Have faith, buddy, remember? Your own words."

Stan gave him a grim smile. "Right."

The Dodgers, however, seemed determined to squander those outs quickly and fruitlessly. But they kept hope alive by getting a man on base with a walk. As they waited for the next batter to come to the plate, Al finished off his final beer, then commented casually to Stan: "Sarah has a son now."

Stan blinked, wondering if he had heard him right, and knowing that he had. This was also something he had heard nothing about. It galled him that Al knew these kinds of details when he didn't; Al hadn't even really _known _Sarah.

"Really," he said flatly, almost more of a statement than a question.

"Sometime early in '85, it was. February, I think. So he's about three and a half years old."

Now Stan was genuinely dumbfounded. The math didn't lie. If Al was right, that meant Sarah had conceived in May of 1984. He found the implications of that more than a little disturbing.

"Do you know his name?" he asked numbly.

"John."

"John…" Stan's inflection left the name hanging in mid-air, waiting for a surname to be added. Al supplied it.

"Connor."

Stan's brows raised slightly. "The father's not on the scene?"

"No, I don't think he was around for too long."

Paranoia was creeping up on Stan once more. "You didn't read _that_ in the paper," he mumbled under his breath.

Al turned to him. "What?!"

"I thought you said you hadn't seen her."

"I haven't!"

"How do you know about all of this?"

Al turned away quickly, focusing his eyes intently on the field again. "I just heard it around, you know? It was a couple of years ago."

Stan was persistent. "But who told you?"

"Who told me?" Al paused, making a show of thinking hard. "Who was it that told me," he said, seemingly more to himself than to Stan, "I _should_ remember…"

But Al had the look of a drowning man, desperate, looking for something – _anything_ – to latch onto to save himself. And he found something.

"Gibson's going to _bat_?!" he gasped incredulously, changing the subject entirely.

Stan was staring at Al, waiting for an answer to his question. For a moment he didn't comprehend the sharp turn in the conversation; he was too intent on finding out where Al had gotten his information. He now heard the PA announcer, as if from a great distance:

"Now batting for the Dodgers…number 23…Kirk…Gibson."

He quickly re-focused his attention down to the field. He was as surprised as Al was by this development. The injured Gibson could barely stand upright, much less walk, or bat…or beat a throw to first base. But sure enough, he was hobbling to the plate – with two out in the bottom of the ninth – to pinch-hit for the pitcher.

"He's going to have to hit a home run just to not get thrown out at first base," one Cyberdyne employee groaned.

"Maybe," Al retorted, "but if he hits that home run he can take all night to _crawl _around the bases, if he has to. The next game doesn't start until eight o'clock tomorrow night."

Laughter ensued, temporarily breaking the nervous tension that was rising among them. The entire crowd was now on its feet. Stan hung on every pitch, watching Gibson work the count. It became clear that Eckersly wouldn't be able to dispense with him quickly or easily. Ultimately, the count went to three balls and two strikes; everything hung in the balance.

Stan looked down and realized he was gripping the back of the chair in front of him tightly, with both hands. He forced himself to let go. Whether his tension was coming from his disturbing conversation with Al or from this key moment in the game, he didn't know. It was probably a bit of both.

A sharp crack suddenly resonated through the stadium. It was the sound of a bat connecting perfectly and solidly with a 93 mile per hour fastball. In the Cyberdyne box, someone immediately called out, "Oh man, he got _all_ of that!"

_He sure did,_ Stan thought. He watched the trajectory of the ball as it arced through the night sky. When it cleared the fence and landed in the right field bleachers, he leaped in the air, letting out a loud whoop. A joyous pandemonium broke out in the stadium. The two run homer had won it for the Dodgers; the miracle comeback was complete. Stan continued cheering, as he watched Gibson round the bases while pumping a fist in celebrationThen he exchanged enthusiastic high fives with everyone around him, the tension between himself and Al temporarily forgotten. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and winked.

"I never had a doubt!" he yelled over the noise.

Eventually, the hyped-up crowd started to file out of the stadium. Stan and Al lingered for a few minutes, talking with Miles Dyson, as they waited for the crowd to thin a bit. Then they said their goodnights, and headed toward the concourse.

ooOOoo

They walked to a nearby fast food joint. As they settled into a booth with their food, they were feeling drained but happy.

"What a ride," Stan exclaimed. "That was great!"

"Incredible," Al agreed. "Hey, I'm glad you came."

"Well, thanks for asking me. I owe you one."

They dug into their food. Stan didn't want to sour the mood again, but he felt he had to say something about their earlier conversation. He chased a mouthful of burger with some coffee, then fixed Al with an earnest look.

"Awhile ago, back there at the stadium… I was getting kind of confrontational…" He paused, trying to organize his thoughts. "I just wanted to say that I was out of line. I'm sorry about that. You invite me out to the game and I give you a hard time."

The truth was his curiosity about Al's information source was still burning a hole through him. But he didn't want to seem ungrateful to his friend; it was best to back off a bit. Al was happy to let the subject be dropped.

"Forget it," he said. But Stan continued.

"It's just that whenever I get thinking about that weekend, I get pretty agitated. There were so many crazy things going on, and Sarah was caught up in it, and there was never much explanation for any of it."

"Maybe you're just reading too much into it."

This hadn't occurred to Stan. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you _don't _know exactly what happened, so maybe you've given too much credence to the things you've heard. There were all kinds of rumours and tall tales after that weekend; I heard a lot of them myself. Some strange things happened, definitely, but not _everything _that people say happened actually happened. It's all Friday the 13th stuff, and urban myth. It was a Friday the 13th weekend, remember? Take that, and add in the maniac that was on the loose at the time, and you'll end up with some great stories. People just started to make up all kinds of things."

Stan could sense that Al was watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. He must have still looked doubtful, because Al pressed on, appealing to his sense of reason.

"One of the most common stories that made the rounds was that some guy got run over by a transport truck, and was then dragged along under it. Not only did it not kill him, but then he got up and stole the rig!" Al slapped a thigh, laughing. "Oh man, I love that one! But you don't really believe that happened, do you?"

Stan hesitated, not wanting to appear foolish. He wasn't sure what he believed, but it was clear what his friend wanted him to believe.

"But those two truckers were left at the side of the road," he countered. "One of them said that guy climbed into the cab looking like something from 'Night Of the Living Dead', and ordered him to get out."

"Listen to yourself!" Al exclaimed. "Did you _see _the truckers being interviewed on the news?"

"No, I heard – "

"Right, you _heard, _that's all. You didn't hear it on the news because there _were _no truckers. There was no _truck." _

Stan sighed. "I don't know. Maybe."

Al continued: "But then the next person has to enhance the story, and make it even better. So before you know it, we're hearing that the rig exploded, and that someone saw a guy climbing calmly from the cab and walking through the flames. Not to be outdone, someone _else _embellishes the story by saying that shortly before all this, another man was seen tossing pipe bombs on the freeway, and maybe that's how the rig exploded. People just kept layering on whatever detail they wanted to add, you know?"

"If you had looked him in the eye," Stan interjected quietly, "you just might believe every one of those stories."

Al peered at him quizzically. "Who?"

"The stalker. We both know that's who all the stories are about. I _saw _the guy."

"We all did…those photo stills from the police security camera, on the news."

"No. I mean I came face to face with him."

Al was momentarily stunned speechless. "When? Wher -- You never told me this!"

Stan spread his hands, a bemused expression on his face. "I had no idea how to explain it. I went to Sarah's apartment after hearing the news report about all the Sarah Connors. When I arrived, he was on his way out. When he pushed the door open, it hit me, and nearly knocked me over. I broke my arm," he said, unconsciously massaging his right arm as he spoke, "and got a concussion when my head hit the outer door. So I confronted him, but I wish I hadn't. Looking into his eyes…" Shaking his head, he trailed off, at a loss for words.

"Yeah? _What?" _Al encouraged him.

Stan was finding it hard to look directly at Alex for the next part. "This will sound strange, but it was the scariest thing I've ever seen. I don't even know why. Those eyes…flat, dead. Just nothing there at all. Almost inhuman. But I had this awful sense that they could see right down into me. It gave me nightmares."

He braced himself for the ridicule he knew was coming. But Al's look, far from being skeptical or outright disbelieving, was one of pure fascination.

"I didn't know you had actually seen him in person."

"If you want to call it that. I'm not sure I'd call him a 'person', considering what he had just done in Sarah's apartment."

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing."

Oddly, Al seemed a bit disappointed by this. "Nothing at all?"

"Not a thing," Stan reiterated.

"Did you contact the police?"

"No, I decided not to get involved."

"Tell anyone else?"

"No."

"You probably shouldn't," he advised.

"Why not?" Stan had no intention of telling anyone – it was a bit late now – but he wanted to hear the reason. Al was fidgeting again, tracing his finger along a crack in the table top. He didn't look up.

"Well, you know…the guy's still out there somewhere, right?"

Stan nearly shivered at the idea. "Yeah. He was never found." He took a sip of his now tepid coffee. "Do you suppose Sarah worries that he might ever come back?"

Al shrugged noncommittally. "It's possible."

"Possible that she worries, or possible that he might come back?"

Al was staring into his empty coffee cup. "Both," he said quietly.

"What could he have wanted her for that he was willing to go through _that _many people to get to her?"

"I guess we'll never know," Al replied, with finality. He glanced at his watch. "I should get going."

ooOOoo

Half an hour later, Al dropped Stan off in front of the modest suburban bungalow that he now called home. It was late, but he knew he wouldn't sleep; he had been left with far too much to think about. A lot of the disturbing memories that had haunted him these past few years had been stirred up and brought to the surface once again. And now the mystery had deepened even more. Al inexplicably seemed to know a lot of details about the aftermath of the strange events of May 1984…and about Sarah Connor, in particular.

He paced restlessly, brooding, then wandered into the den. He turned on a single lamp, leaving much of the room cast in shadow, and settled onto the couch. Sprawled along the back of the couch, Dewey rumbled contentedly in his ear. "Hey, we won," he said conversationally. He leaned his head back far enough to use the cat's soft stomach for a pillow. Then he snuck a look out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, Dewey was glaring at him indignantly. Laughing, Stan lifted his head again, then reached back and scratched gently under the cat's chin. Looking blissful now, Dewey leaned into it, and resumed his purring. For his part, Stan resumed his brooding.

He had often thought about Sarah over the last few years. Even though they had never actually dated, he felt a sense of connection to her that even he found puzzling. Maybe it was because of his attempts to make amends that fateful night. Or perhaps it was because he had experienced, if only fleetingly, a bit of what she had experienced that weekend.

He had wondered how she was doing and where she was living. Most of all, he had wondered whether she had fully recovered from what had happened to her. He didn't know if full recovery was possible. Surely something like that had to change a person in some way. Would she be the same Sarah he had known?

He had also often wondered what the outcome would have been if she _had _been with him that Friday night. Would he have been willing to stand protectively in front of Sarah and face down the gunman? His own encounter with the man that night suggested that it wasn't likely. _It probably wouldn't have made a difference, _he thought. _If I had, it only would have added me to the body count. _But that didn't make him feel any better about it.

A key date had been seared into Stan's mind tonight, burning bright as neon.

"February 1985," he said out loud. At the sound of his voice, Dewey made a small chirp of acknowledgment from deep in his throat, without ever really waking up.

He figured Sarah couldn't have been too broken up about their cancelled date. He considered the possibilities. It seemed unlikely that she would have been pregnant _before _their would-be date, because she hadn't been seeing anyone. It was even less likely that she would have conceived in the days or weeks immediately after her traumatic experience. That seemed to leave only one possibility. Stan taxed his memory, trying to remember the name. It came to him surprisingly quickly: Reese. _Right. Kyle Reese._

Was Reese the father of Sarah's son? He appeared to be the most likely candidate. Unless the stalker had – He shut the thought down before it could fully form. No. The stalker had never actually gotten to Sarah; if he had, she'd be dead.

But Reese's motives were still unknown to him. Had he simply used Sarah as a hostage, to aid in his own escape from the police station? Or was he actively protecting her from the rampaging gunman? Did she go with him willingly? Sarah might have gone with _anyone _in order to get out of the station while it was being shot up. Still, he had a gut feeling that she had chosen to go with him for a reason, that she was relying on him.

Whatever his intentions were, Reese had died that night in trying to carry them out. Stan was reminded now of some conversation from earlier that night. "The father's not on the scene?" he had asked Al. "No, I don't think he was around for too long." This lent further support to the Reese-as-father theory. Reese _hadn't _been around Sarah for long…because he had met an untimely end. But like everything else connected to these events, the news reports had been vague about Reese's cause of death. It had been some kind of trauma to the head. _Kind of like Matt Buchanan, _Stan thought grimly. It might have involved some kind of machinery, there might have been an explosion; nothing seemed to be definite. He and Sarah had been found in an industrial park factory, but the police had never specified whose factory. And Stan had never pieced together exactly what had happened over those two days; there just wasn't enough information.

On impulse, he now stood up and went to the front hall closet. He dug deep into the back of it and re-emerged holding a leather jacket. It was the one he had been wearing that night in 1984. He had never worn it again, but for some reason he had been reluctant to throw it out. It stood as a testament to his own experience that night. The jacket hadn't been cleaned before being retired, and parts of the collar were stiff and cracked from dried blood.

He fished in the pockets and pulled out a few scraps of paper and cardboard. One was his ticket stub from the Dodgers-Mets game that night. Another was his parking stub for the stadium lot. The third item he studied closely – almost as if for the first time – while walking slowly back to the den.

He sank back onto the couch, still examining the tattered scrap of paper. There was nothing noteworthy about it. He had written a phone number on it in bold, black marker, Sarah's phone number. Beneath that was her address, penned in blue ink by Sarah herself. It was an address that Stan could now only associate with bad – and gruesome – memories. He wondered who lived there now, and whether or not they knew what had happened there.

But running his finger over Sarah's printing, it seemed like he could still feel something of her essence in this simple item that she had once held. And he remembered with absolute clarity when that had been. His memory instantly transported him back to that time now:

He was sitting in a booth at Big Jeff's, waiting to order and hoping that Sarah would be his waitress. As luck would have it, he looked up to see her standing by his table, notepad in hand.

"Hi, I'm -- "

"Sarah, and you'll be my waitress today," he finished cheekily. He had heard the spiel often enough.

"Right," Sarah replied slowly, with a wry smile.

"I see they didn't fire you."

"No, I'm still here."

"No thanks to Gravy Man."

"Well, you know, the customer is always right."

"Oh…sure," Stan replied, with a touch of sarcasm. Then he brightened again. "So, are you going to tell me what the specials of the day are?"

"Hmmm." Sarah appeared to think it over. "No, I don't think so."

Stan looked surprised. "No? Why not?"

"Because," she teased, getting her own good-natured jab in, "you always have the same thing. We don't even need to come out here to take your order. You walk in the door, and we say 'burger platter with the works'."

Stan showed mock dismay at this revelation. "Oh no, I'm predictable!"

"Don't worry, there are worse things to be."

Another waitress squeezed by Sarah in the aisle, and called back over her shoulder, "I'm back from my break if you want to take yours."

"Okay."

Stan seized the moment. "Would you like to join me?"

Sarah looked a bit surprised, but replied, "Sure."

She brought his order to him, then sat down across the table from him. For the first time they really talked, instead of just exchanging banter. He found out that she was studying Linguistics and Psychology at university. "Interesting combination," he commented. He described to her his film studies program at USC. After talking for a few more minutes, he knew her break would be over soon. He had to do it now.

"I have a couple of tickets to the Lennon show at the Hollywood Bowl next Friday," he said. "Would you care to come along with me?"

Sarah hesitated, not having expected the invitation.

"Maybe you already have plans for – "

"No," Sarah assured him, "I don't. That sounds fun; I'd like to go."

He beamed a smile at her. "Great!" Digging in his pockets, he pulled out a small piece of paper and a marker. "Can I get your phone number so I can call you about the details?"

He wrote it down as she recited it to him, then he happily dug into his burger platter again. As an afterthought, he added, "Oh, I should get your address, too. So I'll know where to pick you up."

With the burger still clutched in his right hand, he awkwardly attempted to write with his left. Sarah watched him struggle for a moment or two, a smile stealing across her face, then she said, "Here, let me." She slid the paper across the table toward her, picked up her order pen, and scribbled the address onto the paper.

"Thanks," he said, while noticing her looking at the clock. "Your break's over, isn't it?"

"Afraid so."

"I'll give you a call, okay?"

In the shadows of the den, Stan looked down at the paper, now crumpled under his curled fingers. He flattened it out again. _Yeah, I gave her a call all right, _he thought miserably. _The kind of call every girl just loves to get. _

He tucked the items back into the jacket's pocket. In the morning, it would be returned to the back of the closet. For now, he put his feet up and his head back, and allowed himself to doze off.

ooOOoo

Stan and Al had parted that night promising each other that they'd get together for another night out. But with their busy schedules and different social circles, Stan didn't think it would happen. In the months following, nothing happened that caused him to think differently. Then, in mid-summer of the next year, he received a call from Al inviting him to be a guest in the Cyberdyne box for a Dodgers game again. Thereafter, it became a yearly ritual for them, one that they both enjoyed and looked forward to. The outings allowed them to catch up on each other's news and activities, and reminisce about old times…all while enjoying a ball game.

When Al didn't call in 1994, Stan was unsure of what to do. He didn't want to call him, giving the impression that he expected a complementary game every year. But Al had called five years running now, and Stan just wanted to be sure everything was okay with his friend. He reluctantly made the call, and was surprised to find that Al's phone line was out of service. Pursuing the matter further, he then discovered that Al also no longer resided at his address of many years. There didn't seem to be any way to contact him, or even to know where he was. Stan started to suspect that there _was _something wrong.

xxx (End Chapter 4) xxx

Chapter Notes:

1. The Dodgers – Athletics 1988 World Series Game 1 (including the famous Gibson home run) is factual.


	5. Sharp Focus

**Afterimage **

by zerofret

Chapter 5: Sharp Focus 

January 1995 –

The black late-model Mustang crested the rise in the road at such a terrific speed that its wheels momentarily lost contact with the pavement. Once earthbound again, it roared on into the nighttime countryside, its headlights cutting a swath of light through the darkness before it. The tranquil stillness of the rural landscape was restored, as the Mustang – its taillights glowing red, like two fiercely burning eyes – receded into the distance.

It was a short-lived respite. Soon afterward, a hazy glow appeared on the horizon again. An SUV now hurtled over the rise. It too sped into the night, steadily closing the gap on the preceding vehicle. Half a mile on, that gap had been eliminated. The SUV, riding just off of the Mustang's rear bumper, accelerated hard toward the car, striking it solidly. The Ford slewed wildly, then straightened out again, managing to hold the road. Having fallen back slightly, the larger vehicle now engaged the smaller one again. It commenced a repeated assault, bumping the other car first from behind, then from the side, trying to force it off the road. The smaller car – battered from the onslaught – weaved back and forth on the road, attempting to evade the blows.

Locked against each other in a death grip, the two cars negotiated a sharp bend in the road. Squealing rubber and grinding metal shrieked a hellish duet, as the machines – at the behest of their phantom drivers – jockeyed for position on the road. Around the bend, the ironwork of a bridge loomed in the near distance. As they drew closer to it, the SUV swung hard into the Mustang's left side, forcing it toward the shoulder of the road…and into the immediate path of an iron bridge pillar. Only seconds before impact, the Mustang veered sharply to the right. It seemed it might be able to avoid the certainly fatal collision. And miraculously, it did.

But the car rocked onto its right side wheels in response to the sudden change of direction; it was now threatening to overturn. The left side wheels spun freely in the air, then struck the concrete base of the pillar. A loud crack echoed across the countryside as the front tire blew out, and the car lurched up and over the concrete block. Immediately the vehicle was airborne, flipping over as its momentum launched it out over the river that flowed under the bridge. It smashed into the water with deadly impact, remaining visible for only a few seconds. Then it was swallowed by the river, sinking to its final resting place, and taking its human cargo with it. Within moments, mild ripples in the water were the sole evidence that anything at all had occurred here. Nothing – and no one – broke the surface; the river flowed placidly once again. After idling by the roadside for a brief time, the SUV geared up and rocketed into the night. A hushed stillness reclaimed the dark country road.

Stan's eyes gleamed as he looked on in satisfaction. _Perfect! _he thought. He couldn't have hoped for any better, and he was extremely pleased with the results he'd gotten. His eyes lingered on the scene; he was thoroughly enjoying it.

A woman's voice then broke the silence: "You have a phone call, Stan. Should I take a message?"

_Reality intrudes, _Stan sighed to himself. Looking to his right, he saw a set assistant hovering by his side. He was about to answer "yes", then suddenly changed his mind.

"No, that's okay, Nancy," he said agreeably, "I'll take the call." He gestured over his shoulder toward the back of the small screening theatre he was sitting in. "I'll get it back by the projection room."

He had been viewing raw footage for his current feature film, and what he had seen today had put him in a good mood indeed. The stunt drivers had outdone themselves. It was all coming together nicely. This was fortunate, because he knew the pressure was on. This suspense-thriller would be his third feature film. His second film had garnered a fair amount of attention, so there were high expectations for this one. All of the potential he had shown in the first two films would have to be fully realized in this current effort. But he was feeling confident.

He stood and walked to a narrow corridor that led from the back of the screening room. Lifting the receiver of the phone that hung on the wall there, he greeted his caller: "Hello. It's Stan Morsky."

He was met with only silence on the other end of the line. "Hello," he repeated, a bit louder this time, and with slight impatience. "Anybody there?"

"Stan?" a voice asked hesitantly, almost as if the caller didn't believe it was really him. But Stan knew who _he_ was talking to immediately, and it left him feeling both surprised and relieved.

"Al?!" he replied, the shock evident in his voice. "Hey, where have you been? I was worried about you when I didn't hear from you this past – "

"I need to talk to you," Al cut in.

"Sure, buddy, what's up?"

"No, not on the phone. I have to talk to you in person. Can you meet me at the pier?"

"Not on the phone?" Stan echoed. "Meet you at the pier? Hey, sounds clandestine," he kidded, "like a spy movie."

But Al clearly wasn't in the mood for jokes. "Will you meet me there?" he asked again, insistently.

Stan grew serious now. "Yeah, sure, I'll meet you. You okay?"

"I've been better."

Stan was already continuing, counting off on his fingers as he spoke: "It's just that you suddenly changed your phone number, your address, your e-mail…everything all at once. And you didn't leave forwarding for any of it."

"I'll explain everything," Al promised. "That'll have to do for now, okay?"

Stan was puzzled by Al's secrecy, and concerned about the tone of urgency in his voice. But there was no point in questioning it further; Al obviously wasn't going to say anything more about it right now.

"Okay then, the pier it is. When?"

ooOOoo

They met the next afternoon. It was a cool day on the beach, and Stan wandered along the pier with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets for warmth. Within a few minutes, he spotted Alex coming along the boardwalk toward the pier. He waved to get his attention, and Al returned a quick wave of acknowledgment. Stan waited where he was; when Al got to him, they greeted each other with a handshake.

"It's good to see you," Al said, smiling.

"You, too. I tried to call you awhile back, but…" He shrugged. Al nodded his understanding; he had been unreachable.

"So how are things going?" Al asked casually.

"I'm doing great," Stan assured him. "It's _you _I'm worried about. What's going on?"

Al ignored the question. "And how goes the movie biz? You have a pretty big project on the go right now, don't you?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah, it's make or break time."

"Is it coming along well?"

"I'm pretty happy with it so far. I was reviewing some of the footage when you called." Stan eyed Al levelly. "But you didn't bring me all the way out here to discuss my next film."

"No," Al admitted.

"So what did you need to talk to me about?"

Al paced a few steps, a rather lost expression on his face. "I just thought it was time you knew."

"Knew what?"

Al was still hesitant, as if he didn't know where to begin. Clearly, this was hard for him. "There's _a lot _to try to absorb here," he said quietly.

_Then let's get started already, _Stan thought. He just wanted Al to cut to the chase so that he'd know why they were there. He tried to ease him into it. "Tell you what," he offered, "why don't we go grab a bite to eat, and we'll have plenty of time to – "

"No!" Al shook his head vehemently. "We have to talk out here."

Stan – a bit taken aback by the sharp tone of his friend's voice – agreed to his demand. "Okay," he said carefully, not wanting to upset him further, "whatever you want."

Al nodded curtly, then turned and started to walk toward the far end of the pier. Stan, mystified by his friend's behaviour, watched him go for a moment, before hurrying to catch up. They walked in silence, each one lost in his own thoughts. Stan noted how few people were around the pier on this gray afternoon. _And I think that's exactly why Al chose this as a meeting spot, _he thought to himself.

When they reached the end of the pier, Al leaned against the railing, and gazed out at the white-capped waves rolling in toward the shore. Stan waited patiently while a minute or two passed. Finally, Al turned to him.

"Have you heard anything about Sarah Connor recently?"

This question left Stan thoroughly non-plussed. "Sarah Connor?!" he asked incredulously. Al simply waited silently for an answer, so Stan continued: "As a matter of fact, I have."

"What have you heard? What do you know about her?"

_Where to begin, _Stan mused to himself. He gave a flippant reply: "Well, I know that she's not exactly the Avon lady."

Al laughed bitterly. "No," he agreed. "No, she's not." Almost to himself he muttered, "You sure wouldn't want to get a house call from Sarah Connor."

Suddenly, something clicked into place for Stan. "But Cyberdyne _did _get one, didn't they?" he prompted. Al was kicking idly at pebbles on the pier. He looked up now – directly at Stan – and nodded solemnly.

Stan's nonchalance about Sarah was strictly a front. In truth, he had been deeply shocked by the transformation she had undergone during the past decade. It had been revealed to him one surreal night this past year. He had turned on his TV to find that Sarah was in the news. This time, though, Sarah wasn't the victim; she was the aggressor. She had been foiled in an attempt to blow up the Cyberdyne Systems building in Irvine. The police had moved in quickly; TV crews had been hot on their heels, having caught wind of a potentially sensational news story. The resulting video footage had been shown repeatedly on several news programs. It now started – completely unbidden – to play itself out in Stan's mind.

In the darkness, a heavy police presence could be seen around the building. Strobing lights on top of police cruisers cast the scene in a garish light. Members of the bomb squad milled about. From time to time, shouts could be heard in the darkness, as orders and directions were given.

This was followed by a camera shot of an EMS vehicle standing by, with its back doors open. Two paramedics wheeling a stretcher came into view; they stopped and prepared to load it into the ambulance. The lights of the TV crews reflected sharply off of a handcuff bracelet that was secured to the stretcher. The connecting chain snaked away under a sheet to the other cuff, which held fast the stretcher's occupant. That person was a disheveled and barely recognizable – at least to Stan – Sarah Connor. The sheet draped over her was stained with blood, in the area of her upper left arm. It had been necessary for the police to shoot the perpetrator in order to subdue her, the newscaster was reporting. Despite her weak condition, Sarah was still protesting, periodically spitting epithets at her captors:

"Don't you see, I have to _stop _them! Listen to me, you-" A lengthy censoring tone blocked out the next few words. "You don't understand! It's _not _too late, the future is not s – "

The ambulance doors slammed closed and the vehicle moved away, surrounded by a police escort.

Sarah had continued to appear in the news for the better part of a month. TV stations had stayed with the story, giving viewers as much background as they could about the would-be bomber. The images that had flashed across his TV screen had revealed Sarah as a now hardened and toughened woman, the very picture of battle ready fitness. And she appeared to be expecting a battle, as she was perennially outfitted in paramilitary style dress. The soft grey eyes had hardened to flint.

She was a drifter, moving not just from town to town, but from country to country. She had connections with underground militia groups, and with mercenaries in various Latin American countries. Her known involvement in gunrunning, and in other illegal activities, linked her to a number of unsavory characters. Their names – Salceda and Gant, among others – meant nothing to Stan. But worst of all, in the opinion of the TV news journalists, was the fact that her young son was forced to live this same vagabond existence. Surely, they speculated, he was being influenced by his mother's lifestyle; this didn't bode well for the young man's future. Sarah Connor, however, didn't appear to be the kind of woman who lost any sleep over her lack of parenting skills.

The news journalists inevitably summed up their findings by attributing Connor's anti-social behaviour to a key event in her life. She had been profoundly traumatized by a stalking incident that had happened a decade ago. She had survived the ordeal, but several people close to her – her mother, her best friend, and a man who had been her self-styled protector – had all become victims of the gunman. The stalker had never been apprehended. No doubt, the analysts maintained, the emotional trauma of this event, combined with the uncertain outcome, had left Connor deeply disturbed. Her character and personality had been fundamentally changed. Her self-transformation into a precision fighter and marksman was easily accounted for, they said. Clearly, she expected the gunman to return someday to complete his unfinished business; she intended to be ready for him.

But the experts had fewer answers as to why Sarah had become a raving doomsayer, babbling incoherently about defense technology that would be the end of us. Some rumours had it that her dire doomsday warnings came complete with a specific day and year. They were also at a loss to explain why Connor had targeted Cyberdyne Systems Corporation. But, they pointed out, she was obviously delusional; there was no point in trying to find sense in her actions. They assured the public that, fortunately, she was now in the care of an accomplished psychologist, one Dr. Peter Silberman.

Stan had watched these news reports slack-jawed, in disbelief of what Sarah had become. But there was a seething undercurrent to that reaction, a simmering resentment toward the smug talking heads who thought they could deconstruct Sarah's life and motives inside of five minutes. He had expected that the now long ago incident would affect her in some way, but he hadn't foreseen anything like this. To Stan, it seemed like Sarah had had an encounter with the body snatchers. Where was the sweet, good-natured waitress he had known? Did she still exist, locked deep inside this obsessed and humourless fanatic?

Al was talking now, and Stan shook himself from his reverie, wondering how long he had been "away".

" – trial is over, and she was convicted. She's serving time at Pescadero State Hospital." He paused, then added, "It's a facility for the criminally insane."

Stan gave a sober nod. "Yeah, I heard that the trial had ended, and that she was found guilty. They did catch her right in the act, after all. I didn't know about the institution part, but I can't really say that I'm surprised."

He related to Al everything he had just been thinking about. His friend's initial response seemed to him to be rather curious; it wasn't about Sarah at all.

"He won't be back," Al announced, with certainty. Stan gave him a questioning look, but Al was already continuing: "All of these TV people don't have a clue. Sarah isn't obsessively preparing herself for battle out of some delusional belief that the stalker will come back to finish her off. He's not coming back. And Sarah _knows _he's not coming back."

Stan's curiosity was piqued. "How do you know that?"

Al answered with a question of his own. "What if I told you that Sarah Connor isn't nearly as crazy as people seem to think? Or that if she _is _crazy, she was driven into that state by betrayal, by being set up?"

"Come on, no one _made _Sarah try to blow up a building. She managed that all by herself." Stan paced a bit, feeling agitated; then he spun back toward Al. "And there you go again!" he exclaimed accusingly, pointing at him.

"Again?"

"Remember the night of the World Series game? It sure seemed like you knew a lot about Sarah that I didn't know."

Al looked chagrined. "Yeah, I put my foot in it a few times that night," he conceded.

"And now here you are again suggesting that you know even more things about Sarah. Things that other people don't know."

"Not me specifically," Al corrected him. "Cyberdyne. Cyberdyne knows _a lot _about Sarah Connor."

"Cyber – " Stan cut the word off, and raised his hands questioningly. "What _is _it with her and Cyberdyne? Why does she have it in for them?"

"That's a loaded question," Al mumbled. He looked up to see Stan glaring daggers at him, waiting for an answer. "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath, "let me start at the beginning."

Stan, believing that he was finally going to get some answers, felt somewhat placated. He leaned back against the railing, and signaled to Al to proceed. Like before, Al was a bit hesitant as he began.

"You remember that weekend in 1984 when the, uh, stalker was after Sarah."

Stan understood that this was more of a statement than a question. "Of course," he confirmed.

"It all ended in the early hours of Sunday morning, just past midnight. Sarah, and the man who was protecting her – "

"Reese."

Alex looked a bit surprised. "Right. They broke into a factory in a final attempt to escape the…"Al stopped for a moment, searching for words. "…the gunman. You can see where I'm going with this, can't you? That factory was Cyberdyne Systems, the old Cyberdyne building, that is. And that's where they were eventually found, in the mechanical division."

"_They _were found? You mean just Sarah and Reese, right? The gunman was gone, wasn't he?"

Al shifted his weight and jammed his hands into his pockets. He seemed to be considering the question carefully. "Well…yeah," he finally answered.

"And when they found them, Reese was dead." This much Stan knew, because it had been reported on the news. Al replied with a nod of confirmation, a grim look on his face.

"What happened to him?" Stan asked.

Al didn't answer immediately; instead, he continued at his own pace. "The break-in was reported, and the police contacted Greg Simmons to let him know about it. I got a call in the middle of the night from Jack Kroll, asking me to come in to the factory. The partners had to go to the scene, of course, and they wanted another employee there, just to assist, be a go-fer, whatever. That was me. I think the reason they chose to drag _me_ out of bed in the middle of the night was because I was the newest employee. I was still settling in, finding my niche. So they knew I wouldn't dare complain; I'd end up being labeled uncooperative or not a 'team player'."

"By the time I got there, they were zipping the bag closed on Reese, and the ambulance was just about to leave to take Sarah to the hospital." He cleared his throat, then continued, obviously making an effort to sound casual. "So I was there with them when they found...it."

"It?"

Alex gave him a warning now. "The story gets crazy from here on in."

Stan responded with a stiff shrug. "I just found out that you've known all along where – and in what condition – Sarah was found that weekend. That you were even _there. _I'm shell-shocked already; nothing else is going to surprise me any more than that."

Al laughed nervously. "Don't be too sure about that." He checked for Stan's reaction, then turned away looking stung. Stan could guess why; he knew that his expression must be reflecting the betrayal he was feeling. Al had fixed his gaze on a small boat that was bobbing gently on the waves. He forged on, determined to get everything said:

"After the police had wrapped things up, we went inside to get things back in order. A lot of the machines were powered up and running – I don't know why – and the first order of business was to get them shut down. But we got a surprise when we reached the hydraulic press. That was where we found it."

"Found _what?_ Could you be a little more specific?"

Al's expression indicated that he was trying to find the right words. "Uh, debris…remnants."

"Remnants of what?"

"We weren't really sure, not at that point." Stan looked like his patience was coming to an end, so Al hastened to describe their discovery. "There was a metal skull, and the upper part of a metal skeleton." Having said that much, he now leaped in with both feet. "It was some kind of a robot. We had no idea where it came from. It was just there."

He fell silent, waiting for a reaction. Stan appraised Al coolly; when he finally spoke, his words revealed his disgust. "I don't believe this. You're trying to tell me that it was the stalker, aren't you? This has got to be a gag, right? Come on, man, I don't have time for this."

He was already annoyed enough at Al for his not having told him long ago what he knew about Sarah. Now he seemed to be making him the butt of some elabourate practical joke. _Last time I checked, it was January, not April, _he fumed to himself.

"I told you it would sound crazy," Al sighed.

"As a loon! Just _like _Sarah Connor." If Al thought he was going to believe this tale even for a _second…_"So why didn't the police find this thing when they did their search?" he challenged.

"Because they didn't search in the hydraulic press. Why would they? And they weren't _looking _for a metal robot!"

"Right! Now you're talking. They were looking for a man, because it was a _man _who was stalking Sarah."

Al shook his head in disagreement. "I don't think so."

"Look, there were dozens of witnesses who saw him. Hell, _I _saw him!"

"And people thought it was a man because it _did _look like a man when they saw it. I think it was what they call a cyborg. It's a robot, but it's covered in living tissue; it's made to look like a person."

"That's pure sci-fi fantasy!" Stan sneered. "Man, I think you need a long vacation. Living tissue? And how is _that _done?"

Al's eyes widened as he shrugged. "I have no idea! By the time it was in our possession, it was only skeletal remains. All of the…skin was gone. But we knew what it had looked like before. We watched the news, too, you know."

"And the skin went," Stan questioned him, giving him a disdainful look, "where? It just disappeared? How does a big guy in leathers end up a metal skeleton?"

"I think you know," Al said quietly, but firmly. Stan shook his head to indicate that no, he in fact didn't know.

"You heard all the stories," Al reminded him. "A guy gets run over by a tractor trailer, but he gets up and steals the rig. The rig explodes, but someone is seen climbing from the cab, and calmly walking through the flames. No _man _could do those things; but maybe a robot made to look like a man could. And it would explain what happened to the skin."

Stan put his hands to his head and strode several steps down the pier, muttering to himself as he went. When he turned and walked back, he was waving his hands in front of him, as if he was trying to ward something off.

"No," he protested. "No! You said yourself that those were just stories. Urban myth and Friday the 13th stuff!"

Al made no excuses. "Of course I did. I would have told anyone that. Cyberdyne had a secret to keep, so we had to discredit stories like that to make sure the trail didn't lead to us."

Stan was staring at Al as if he didn't know him. "Unbelievable," he breathed, his hostility clearly evident.

"Let me finish," Al said.

"What? More lies to tell me about?"

"Just hear me out, okay? Then if you still want to walk away…" He let the rest go unsaid.

Stan responded to this entreaty by crossing his arms angrily against his chest, and glaring expectantly at Al. "Make it fast. And just leave out Robby the Robot this time, because I'm not buying it."

Al raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I _can't_ leave it out; it's the key to everything." He gathered his thoughts for a moment before continuing. "So," he started, "we were pretty blown away by what we found."

Stan barked a sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, I guess."

"Greg told me to go and get the tape from the security camera. We only had one camera in the whole place; it wasn't even motion sensitive. We took the tape upstairs to the offices to have a look at it, but I didn't expect it to show much. Well…" He shook his head in wonder.

"I take it metal man was very obliging for the camera," Stan quipped mockingly. "I sure hope you got his good side."

"Really, Stan," Al implored him earnestly, "there was something _very _weird going on in there that night. I can't say exactly what happened, but that…_thing _was up on its feet – it still had feet at that point – and it was chasing them."

"Sarah and her knight in shining armour?"

"Right."

Stan looked away, silent and tight-lipped. Finally, he scoffed, "Give me a br- "

"If you had looked into its eyes, you might believe all the stories, too."

Stan's head snapped around toward Al, recognition burning in his eyes. "I said that to _you." _

Al nodded. "Yes. You did."

"But I said _he. His _eyes."

"Except it wasn't a he, and they weren't real eyes. But you looked into those eyes yourself. Remember how that made you feel? You even said to me that they seemed almost inhuman, and that they gave you nightmares."

As Stan remembered how indescribably unsettling those moments had been when he had been pinned by the stranger's stare, Al's preposterous tale started to seem the tiniest bit feasible. His comment was also a pointed reminder that he wasn't the only one who had withheld information. Stan hadn't told him about his encounter with Sarah's stalker until four years after the fact. His anger toward Al started to slowly dissipate. His friend's sincerity wasn't in question any longer. It was clear that he fully believed what he was saying, and that it was important to him that Stan believe it, too. He'd at least let him say his piece.

"So," he sighed, with resignation, "the man who was stalking Sarah wasn't a man at all. It was a…" He paused, then made himself say it. "…a robot."

"A remarkably advanced one."

"_I'll _say." He motioned for Al to go on.

"After we watched the tape, we went back down to the factory floor. Greg told me to look around for the rest of the debris, the lower half of it. I found bits and pieces of it all over the place; there had been an explosion. Greg and Jack worked on extracting the top half from the press without damaging it any further. Not much was salvageable because the press had been activated."

"You mean they crushed it? To stop it?" Stan couldn't believe he had actually been drawn into discussing this.

"I think Sarah did."

"You're not sure?"

"Not positive, no."

"Why do you think so, then?"

"Because I think Reese was already dead," Al replied tonelessly.

"You never did say what happened to him. Did that thing get him? Or did he die in this explosion you mentioned?"

"Yes," Al replied.

"So which is it?"

"Either, or. Maybe both. Like I said, we were limited in what we saw. We had one, not very advanced, camera."

Stan switched tracks now. "Who was controlling this robot, anyhow?"

"I don't know. I guess you can see that we still have more questions than answers, ourselves."

"Because _nobody _has technology like that," Stan continued. "Not now, and certainly not ten years ago."

"Nobody that we know of."

Stan smirked, and tried on a Russian accent. "Could be KGB, comrade," he joked. Al remained serious.

"No," he said, with certainty. "We salvaged two things from the wreckage. One of the arms was extended out beyond the press – maybe reaching for Sarah, maybe just trying to reach for the 'off' button, who knows? – and it didn't get crushed. It was the only intact limb. The skull got partially crushed, but we managed to retrieve the computer chip from it. It was damaged; a piece had broken off of it, but it was mostly intact. The arm and the computer chip; Lot 1 and Lot 2 we labeled them. But the Soviets weren't behind this, even as bad as our relations with them were in 1984. This chip – _all _of this technology – is more advanced than anything _anyone _has ever seen!"

Stan's eyes narrowed, and he took a wary step backward. "Whoa, wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me it's some kind of _alien _technology?"

Once more, Al could only reply quietly, "I don't know."

Stan turned, leaned his forearms on the pier railing, and buried his head in his arms. "Oh, man," he breathed, shaking his head as if he couldn't process the information. Al could hear him muttering something about ET phoning home. He then inadvertently made the situation worse.

"Sorry, Stan, I just don't have many answers. I really don't know where it comes from. Or when."

Stan raised his head slowly. "Or _when?" _He ran a hand through his hair, laughing humourlessly. "Oh, this just gets better and better."

"We had to consider _all _of the possibilities. And that included the things Sarah Connor said."

Stan was feeling a bit light headed and giddy now. This was all too much. "Things Sarah Connor said!" he exclaimed, then continued facetiously: "Well, that brings all of this to a whole new level of credibility. Sarah is _so _well noted for her rationality. If Sarah says something is so, then hey, it must be so!"

Frustration was showing on Al's face. "I think you're getting information overload," he remarked wearily.

"Oh, definitely. A lonnggg time ago," Stan drawled. He looked at his watch. "I need a break; let's go eat."

Al gaped at him, as if maybe Stan was failing to grasp the enormity of what he was telling him. He stood his ground.

"No, there's more. And it can't wait." He took a chocolate bar from his jacket pocket, tossed it to Stan, and resumed talking: "The chip was the key to huge leaps forward in science and technology, if only we could figure it out. That meant potentially huge profits, as well. But the company needed to keep its find a secret; it didn't want to share the wealth. The real problem, though, was that there were just no answers to the questions that would be asked. How do we announce that we've developed a piece of highly advanced technology, and then have to admit that we don't know how it works?"

"That could be problematic," Stan deadpanned through a mouthful of chocolate and caramel.

"Then after awhile, Sarah became…well, troublesome. She tried to go public about her belief that Cyberdyne had found – not developed, but _found _– technology that would ultimately lead to a nuclear cataclysm. Accusations like that can lead to questions from higher authorities, maybe even investigations. To keep the chip our secret, it was necessary for us to discredit her. That wasn't hard; she did it _for _us, really. Any time she attempted to expose Cyberdyne, her claims always included ravings about killing machines from the future, time travelers, and some epic war between humans and machines. Those kinds of statements made her look like she was unhinged, so ultimately, no one believed _any _of what she said. Including her predictions about Cyberdyne."

"But as we continued to study the chip, we were astounded at its sophistication. No technology that advanced existed anywhere. And knowing what we knew about the incident at the factory, Sarah's explanation – bizarre as it sounded – was no worse than any other. Part of what drove Sarah to her wits' end was Cyberdyne's denial of having 'found' any advanced technology. The company just played dumb. Back in 1984, the police didn't release the information that Sarah was found at Cyberdyne. The partners liked it that way, and they wanted to keep it that way; then it would look like Sarah was a disturbed individual who had just randomly selected Cyberdyne to go after. If we had produced the evidence at the time – the chip, the arm – then Sarah wouldn't have gotten so desperate that she finally acted against us herself. But, of course, admitting to the evidence was out of the question. The point is that to keep the secret, Cyberdyne _sacrificed _Sarah." He stabbed a finger out in front of him to punctuate his words. "Sacrificed her sanity, and now her freedom. And all for profit. I'd say her rage is pretty justified."

He let Stan absorb that for a minute or two; they both needed a breather. Then Stan asked his next question somewhat hesitantly.

"And you went along with all of this?"

Al evaded Stan's gaze, picking up a few stones and skipping them across the water. "For a lot of years I did," he finally admitted. He looked directly at Stan. "Not without losing plenty of sleep over it, though. I was part of the team, you know? Part of Cyberdyne's bright future that I had such a strong hunch about all those years ago. But I didn't know it would happen like this."

"And what's different now?" Stan asked, trying to get to the crux of the matter.

"Different?"

"You've kept Cyberdyne's secret for ten years. Why are you talking now?"

"Two reasons: Sarah Connor and Miles Dyson."

Stan looked surprised. "Dyson?"

Al nodded, then prefaced his explanation with some more background information. "I'm good at my job, and I work hard at it. I would have done well at Cyberdyne regardless. But there's a reason why I rose to the top so rapidly. It was a payoff. The partners gave me regular promotions and raises in the unspoken understanding that they were buying my silence, that I wouldn't tell anyone about how or where the chip had been found. Eventually, since I had been both loyal _and_ good at my job, I was made Supervisor of the Special Projects Division. I had complete access to the chip; I could work with it whenever I wanted to. But then my status at the company changed, and I wasn't the 'golden boy' anymore. And after awhile, I wasn't Director of Special Projects anymore, either."

"What happened?"

"Jack Kroll – one of the partners – died in 1990. The chip was his pet project. Miles Dyson was promoted onto the research team working on the chip, to fill the gap Jack left. Suddenly our rate of progress increased exponentially. It was Dyson; he understood the thing in a way the rest of us couldn't even begin to. It's like-" He thought for a moment. "…whoever – or _whatever _– designed that chip thinks in a way so different from us, so alien to us, so _flawlessly _logical, that we barely knew how to approach it. But somehow Dyson could get on that plane of thought. Simmons saw more potential for profit in Dyson's work, and before too long he named him Director of Special Projects. I lost the position, and Dyson became my boss."

Stan shifted a bit uncomfortably upon hearing this revelation. He didn't want to ask what he was thinking, but it couldn't be avoided.

"So is this some kind of revenge thing? You're exposing Cyberdyne to get back at them?"

"No," Al replied firmly. "I wasn't happy about it, of course. But Dyson is brilliant; he's made incredible progress on this research. He's full marks for the supervisor's position."

"Then why is Dyson one of the reasons you're talking now?"

"Because," Al said, looking Stan directly in the eye, "Dyson is making such rapid, groundbreaking inroads with his research that Sarah's dire warnings about technology, so advanced we can't guarantee control over it, are almost starting to sound feasible. He doesn't have all of the answers yet, but I think it's just a matter of time. And not a very long time."

"You mean that, despite his best intentions, Dyson might be developing something very dangerous?"

"Potentially," Al sighed. "It depends on how it's used. It could be Alfred Nobel all over again."

Stan glanced over at him sharply; he didn't like the sound of that. But it was certainly possible. Dyson wouldn't be the first scientist to idealistically develop a piece of technology for the betterment of humanity, only to see it used for destructive purposes.

"And Sarah is the other reason," Stan said.

"Right. I told you about all of that already, what Cyberdyne has done to her to keep their secret. Now she's even incarcerated. It's just gone too far."

"And Dyson," Stan asked, "did her go along with all of this? Discrediting Sarah?"

"No, not at all. Actually, he doesn't know anything about it; he's shielded from all of that. They keep him focused strictly on the science. He doesn't know that people are being sacrificed so that Cyberdyne can keep its research secret. He doesn't know about the security tape at all. When he first joined the computer chip research team, and he asked where the chip and the arm came from – as we knew he would – my instructions were to tell him simply: don't ask. I don't think he even knows who Sarah is."

"Sarah doesn't get her situation at Pescadero reviewed until mid-June," he continued. "But I can tell you right now that she won't be getting the transfer to minimum security that she'll want."

Stan looked puzzled. "How do you know? She might make good progress. Word is that she's in the care of a very good psychologist."

"Silberman." Al's voice dripped with contempt as he said the name. "Silberman is a snake. He'd use Sarah for his own devices under any circumstances, keeping her in that place and 'studying' her, just to get his name in some psychiatric journal. That's what he wanted to do with Reese before her; he just never got the chance. But Cyberdyne is giving him good motivation. While Sarah's in Pescadero, she's not troublesome to Cyberdyne. So Simmons is paying off Silberman under the table to make sure she _stays_ there. He also has some useful information he can blackmail Silberman with to make sure that the deal stays in place. Simmons hands over some C-notes, and Silberman's 'expert diagnosis' indicates that Sarah is still unstable and she should remain in max security. It's a nice little bit of collusion they have going on, that they're both benefiting from. It's a match made in heaven; they're both sickening," he finished.

He shook his head in frustration, his hands gripping the railing in front of him so tightly that his knuckles whitened. Then his shoulders slumped, leaving him looking worn out and defeated. "Anyway," he said resignedly, "that's all of it. For what it's worth."

Stan didn't say anything right away; he didn't think Al would want an immediate reaction. He was thinking over everything that he'd been told. He knew it would take days for all of this information to sink in fully. Finally, he asked the only question that remained.

"Why are you telling me all of this? There's a specific reason, isn't there?"

"They have to be stopped," Al replied, with determination.

"I don't think there's anything I can do."

Al gave him a knowing look – his eyebrows raised – coupled with a "yes, there is" nod. Stan was baffled.

"What?"

"Remember some years back you were interested in doing a documentary about Cyberdyne?"

"Yeah," Stan answered hesitantly. He could already see where this was going, and he didn't much like it.

"Well, now is the time to get your cameras rolling. But it can't be a nice little piece about the company's success; it has to be a full expose on how they achieved that success. And who was sacrificed along the way."

Just out of curiosity, Stan sounded him out a bit. "And you'd back me up on this? You'd be my inside man?"

Al laughed, as if the idea was ludicrous. "No! If I were seen to be in any way connected to the project, it would lose all credibility immediately. I've fallen out of favour at Cyberdyne. They regard me only as a demoted, disgruntled employee…one who knows way too much. I intend to disappear before Cyberdyne decides that I'm a problem that needs to be 'taken care of'. I have no wish to go the way of Sarah Connor."

"You're going to disappear where?"

Al shrugged. "I'm not sure. I'll probably have to leave the country."

Stan stared at him in disbelief. "You're asking me to get in the line of fire, and take on Cyberdyne, and you're not even going to stay around?!" He waved a hand dismissively in disgust.

"I told you why I can't be involved," Stan pleaded. "Cyberdyne would discredit us immediately."

"They wouldn't even know that you're invol- "

"Yes, they would!" Al barked insistently. Stan backed away a step, regarding his friend cautiously as he continued: "They'd know. Don't you see? They know everything. And what they don't know, they _find out." _

This had a ring of familiarity to it, and right away Stan realized why. It reminded him of the video footage he had seen of Sarah yelling about how she had to stop them, and that it wasn't too late. It was finally dawning on him that Al was a desperate man. He was thoroughly paranoid about Cyberdyne Systems. And he obviously believed he was in danger. Maybe he was overestimating the company's power and influence. But maybe not.

"Look, if you're going to just disappear, then why do this at all?" he asked.

"Because _somebody _has to." Al made a final appeal to him: "Do it for Sarah."

That caught Stan by surprise; he figured he didn't owe Sarah Connor anything. And frankly, the possibility of making her acquaintance once again rather frightened him. She was, after all, a _very_ different Sarah from the one he had known.

"On my own, I can't prove anything," he pointed out.

"Maybe not," Al admitted. "And Cyberdyne might target you, too, for interfering with them. It's your call. You always said you wished you could make up for what you did to Sarah that night. This is your chance. I let her down by staying silent all these years, but you can make things right."

_Ah, the guilt angle…nice touch, _Stan thought, a bit resentfully.

Even the weather was in tune with his mood now. A light rain had started to fall from the overcast sky. The wind coming in off the ocean had picked up; it rushed in toward the shore, pushing high waves in front of it. Thunder rolled ominously from just over the horizon. Stan gazed out over the water, oblivious to the threatening elements. The weight of everything he had just been told was resting heavily on him. He was only vaguely aware of Al saying something to him. With effort, he tore himself away from his inner thoughts, and turned to Alex.

"Sorry. What did you just say?" he asked.

Al gestured out over the water, into the distance. "I said there's a storm coming in."

Stan nodded slowly, looking back at the menacing black clouds that hung low on the horizon. They seemed to be harbingers of dark times ahead. He felt a sense of foreboding that chilled him. In a flat tone, he answered.

"I know."

He turned away from the scene; he and Alex started to walk back along the deserted pier toward the boardwalk. They didn't talk; both of them retreated into their own thoughts. Stan noticed, though, that Al's step seemed to be the slightest bit lighter now. He was clearly distressed by the situation, but talking to someone about it had probably helped. . At least he wasn't carrying the burden alone anymore. Stan was glad to have been able to do that much for his friend, but he had lingering doubts about whether he could do anything more.

At the boardwalk, they stopped again. Al had an almost apologetic-looking half smile on his face. "I told you it was a lot to absorb, didn't I?"

"You weren't kidding. I don't think I'm going to remember even half of what you told me," Stan confessed. Through a wry smile of his own, he said, "I should have taken notes."

"Don't worry about that," Al reassured him. "Take your time and think it over. It'll all come back to you. Then you can decide what to do."

"Where will I be able to reach you?"

Al just shook his head sadly. He glanced around the immediate area with caution, then surreptitiously pressed something into the palm of Stan's hand. Stan looked down to see a plain white business envelope, sealed and folded over into a square.

Al offered his hand once more; the two friends shook hands. Al gave Stan a firm clap on the shoulder. Then he started to back away.

"Not yet, okay?" he cautioned. "Wait for awhile."

Stan wondered if he had missed some important information. "Wait for what?"

But Al simply pointed at the envelope, then turned and walked away along the boardwalk, his shoulders hunched against the now driving rain. Stan stood for a long time, watching him go. He wondered if he'd ever see Alex again.

ooOOoo

A few minutes later, Stan was sitting – damp and uncomfortable – in his car, in a public parking lot. The storm had reached land; high winds buffeted the sleek roadster, and rain beat down on the roof. He held the envelope, studying it; he turned it over carefully in his hands again and again, as if the blank facing might suddenly reveal the hidden secrets within. Finally, he dug into the pocket of his jeans and produced a small jackknife. Turning the envelope over, he slipped the tip of the knife under the sealed flap. Then he stopped. Looking over his shoulder, he scanned the parking lot thoroughly, well aware that he was already adopting Al's paranoid behaviour. The lot was empty but for one or two other vehicles. He was reasonably sure that the rain streaming down the windshield and the windows would obscure any possible view into the car.

Returning his attention to the envelope, he slit it open across the top and looked inside. It wasn't what he had expected. He had thought – hoped, maybe – that it would contain some further explanation from Al, or a written copy of everything he had told him. Or at least a contact number. Instead, the envelope contained two small items. One was a slip of paper with the name and address of a bank written on it. Beneath the address was a number for a safe deposit box. Also included were the box holder's initials: S.M. Al had registered the box in Stan's name. He reached into the envelope and withdrew the second item. It was a small key, almost certainly the key to the safe deposit box. He stared at it for a full minute, wondering what revelations it would bring. Then he returned the items to the envelope, folded it over again, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Looks like the fun is just beginning," he said.

ooOOoo

He did wait for a while, just as Al had asked him to; he waited for three months. It was just past mid-April when he decided it was time. There had been no sign that anyone thought he was in possession of anything out of the ordinary. No one had approached him to inquire about the whereabouts of Alex Chang. There was no indication that Cyberdyne Systems even knew of Stan's existence. So far, so good.

The bank was located in the Palms District, Sarah's old neighbourhood. Stan allowed himself a smile at that realization; he figured that it was more than coincidence. Al had planned it that way. "Do it for Sarah," he could still hear him saying. Once he was inside the bank, he was able to gain access to the safe deposit box without incident; it was indeed registered to him. As a clerk led him down a hallway, he looked outwardly calm, but his adrenalin was pumping as he approached this moment of truth. He had no idea what to expect.

After he had acquired the box, he was ushered into a private room. For a few long moments, he sat studying the closed box on the table in front of him. Then he reached out with slightly unsteady fingers, and lifted the lid. The items within were decidedly unexceptional. _Nope, no killer robots from the future in here, _he thought, feeling a bit embarrassed at the surge of relief he felt. He drew a deep breath and let it go, relaxing a bit. The box held no robotic metal arm, no impossibly advanced computer chip, no classified Cyberdyne Systems documents. Of course, he hadn't really expected to find any of those things. No one would have been able to spirit away such vital items from under Cyberdyne's unblinking eye.

He took a closer look now at what _was _there. Two items were enclosed in the box, a VHS videotape, and a computer disk. Both were unlabeled. Without pausing to speculate on what information they might hold, he transferred them into a briefcase that he had brought with him. After closing and locking the case, he left the bank.

He took an indirect route home. Staying on heavily traveled thoroughfares, he checked the rearview mirror often as he drove, trying to ascertain whether or not any other vehicle seemed to be following him. When he was fully satisfied that he wasn't being observed, he headed for home.

ooOOoo

He wasted no time getting down to business. After pulling the curtains tightly shut and checking the room for possible hidden cameras or listening devices, he took the tape from its case. There was only one word hand written on the label: COPY. He slid the tape into the VCR, then took a seat on the couch.

The footage on the tape wasn't much more than one minute long. But it was a remarkable minute. The picture quality was grainy and the tape had no audio, but he could tell that he was looking at the inside of the mechanical division of the old Cyberdyne factory. He could see a number of machines churning and grinding without purpose; they didn't actually appear to be working on anything.

Two people entered the camera frame; it was Sarah and Reese. Reese had situated himself protectively in front of Sarah. They were backing up slowly, their eyes warily riveted on something unseen by the camera. Reese said something, and despite the lack of sound, Stan could tell that he had yelled "Run!". Sarah hesitated, so Reese repeated his order, hurrying her down a flight of stairs. Then he turned to confront his as yet unseen assailant.

Stan found himself intrigued by the man. Reese, quite frankly, looked like a derelict; his clothes could have been pulled from a garbage bin. But the man himself was clearly fit, strong, and quick. His eyes burned with purpose. The look of recognition and determination on his face suggested that he was about to engage a foe that he knew well.

But how this was possible was a mystery to Stan. Al had tried to prepare him for this, but Stan couldn't even begin to express his astonishment at what happened next. Reese had drawn his arm back, a metal rod poised in it, ready for hand-to-hand combat. Then his adversary made his – _its _– appearance.

Into the camera frame walked a skeletal figure made entirely of metal. Its artificial eyes blazed a fierce red, and its metal skull and hydraulic limbs and torso gleamed in the factory light. It even had teeth, making the thing look like it wore a maniacal grin, almost as if it was enjoying the pursuit. It appeared to be operating fully independently. But it was labouring, dragging one foot behind it as it advanced on Reese. It held no weapon.

For his part, Reese didn't hesitate. He swung the steel rod in his hand directly at the thing's head. The blow simply tilted the metal skull to one side slightly; it recovered immediately, and seemed to be undamaged. Reese's second swing connected solidly, as well, but the results were the same. Even as he rained continual blows upon the hellish figure, it was oblivious to the assault, moving ever forward. Stan flinched back in his seat as the thing struck out with lightning speed, knocking the bar from Reese's hand. In his head, he could hear the hollow ring it would make as it clattered onto the steel grating beneath their feet.

The machine then returned Reese's assault in a like manner. Drawing back one mechanical arm, it delivered a crushing backhanded blow to the side of the man's head. Reese stumbled out of the camera frame, leaving only the robot in view. Unhurried, it started to move methodically forward once more, in the direction which Reese had fallen. It too disappeared beyond the camera frame.

"Damn!" Stan exclaimed out loud, frustrated at the camera's inability to track the motion. But Al had forewarned him about this. He'd simply have to wait – as patiently as he could – to see if there was anything more to come.

It happened almost immediately. The camera suddenly shuddered violently from the concussion of a blast. Without sound, Stan couldn't be positive that it was an explosion, but Al had mentioned that there had been one. Within moments, his suspicion was confirmed; debris started to shower down in front of the camera. Small bits of metal sprayed like shrapnel. Larger pieces crashed down onto the metal catwalk and the factory floor. Stan could see that the debris was the shattered remains of the robotic would-be assassin. He threw his arms up in front of him instinctively as razor sharp shrapnel flew straight toward the camera eye. The camera shook once more, then the picture cut off.

Stan lowered his hands slowly. For a short time, he simply stared at the blank TV screen. _He got it, _he thought numbly. _Reese actually stopped the damn thing. _Then a random thought occurred. _Where did the explosives come from? _After forwarding the tape to see if there was anything else, he rewound it and watched the footage several more times. What seemed most incredible to him was that he actually believed what he was seeing.

But something was nagging at him. He felt sure that that hadn't been the end of it. Slowly, part of his conversation with Al started to filter back to him, bringing with it a startling realization. _No, Reese didn't stop it. Not entirely. _According to Al, they had found the upper half of it crushed in the hydraulic press. That meant… He swallowed hard. _It kept going even **after **Reese blew it to pieces. That's how determined it was to get to Sarah. _Thunderstruck, he wondered who would have built such a thing, and why.

Now he reached for the computer disk on the table in front of him. He turned the case over in his hands, studying it silently. No doubt it held some of the answers. A part of him wanted to just crack it in half over his knee, and be done with it. But he knew he couldn't; it was too late, and he was too involved. With a resigned sigh he stood, walked to his computer, and inserted the disk.

The primary contents of the disk were Cyberdyne's complete file on Sarah Connor. It seemed like there was nothing about her that they _didn't _know. The file detailed her whole life, mainly from mid-1984 onward. A great deal of attention was given to both her connections with paramilitary organizations, and her weapons training. Cyberdyne had suspected that she could be dangerous to them, and they had been vigilant in keeping their intelligence about her current. By extension, the file also included all known details about Kyle Reese and Sarah's son John.

Stan understood now why Al had assured him that he didn't need to remember everything they had talked about. It was all here. There was a wealth of information about Cyberdyne itself: the computer chip and some of the research related to it, pictures and schematic drawings of the chip and the metal robotic arm, a thorough file on Dr. Peter Silberman. Included in his file, just as Al had said, was damning information that Cyberdyne could use to blackmail Silberman with, thus ensuring that the good doctor would keep Cyberdyne's best interests at heart.

The comprehensive file on Sarah gave information not only about _her, _but also about what she knew of the unique artifacts in Cyberdyne's possession. Included was Sarah's own description of what had happened in 1984, her predictions of terrible things to come, and her explanation of how she knew these things. The last could be summed up in a single name: Kyle Reese.

As Stan watched the computer screen, years of Sarah's life flew by his eyes in mere moments: her education, her known addresses, her friends/relatives/associates, the connection between her stalking incident and the deaths of her mother, her roommate, and Kyle Reese. He came across photographs that had been taken over a period of time by a private investigator under the hire of Cyberdyne Systems. Taken in various locales in California, Mexico, and South America, they depicted Sarah's steady transformation from a teenage waitress to a combat ready elite soldier.

The list of sub-topics on the disk seemed endless: Skynet. A nuclear cataclysm. An epic war between humans and machines, with survival and dominance of the planet at stake. Cyborgs. Detention camps. Humans bar-coded by laser. Disposal units. The Human Resistance. TechCom Forces. General John Connor. Time travel. Kyle Reese's ultimate sacrifice.

Now Stan even had a name for the brick wall he had walked into that fateful night in 1984.

Terminator.

_How appropriate and direct, _he thought grimly, with an inward shudder. Its maker didn't mince words; the unit was named for what it did. It was Cyberdyne Systems Model 101, in more technical terms. A T-800 infiltration unit, built for the express purpose of killing human beings. And now he also knew just who would build such a thing. Not who, but _what. _Another machine – Skynet, a defense system – was the Grand Architect. And Cyberdyne had known all along that if Sarah could convince anyone in authority of the veracity of her claims, then their fledgling project would be shut down immediately. So they had shut down _Sarah _first.

Sarah's prophecies were chilling, to say the least. The key date was August 29, 1997. She believed that on that date nuclear war would come, initiated by a computer-driven defense system that was so advanced it ultimately achieved sentience. A war between humans and machines would ensue, one in which her son was destined to rally the human survivors into a fighting force, then lead them to victory. Cyberdyne was responsible for the technology that would go rogue. Stan realized now that Sarah's activities over the last several years had been an attempt to stop Cyberdyne from developing this technology, thus saving humanity from virtual extinction, and sparing her son a formidable burden of responsibility in a bleak future.

It took Stan several days to wade through all of the information that Al had supplied him with. It all still sounded totally insane. The difference now was that something had taken root within him, a feeling that there _was _something to all of this, and that he ignored it at humanity's peril.

He knew he was in possession of something big, but he still didn't really know what to do with it. He wasn't sure he had it in him to take on Cyberdyne alone; he was no hero or crusader. _Who would believe any of this anyway? _he thought, with frustration.

He could contact Sarah, but it was likely that she was closely monitored at Pescadero; she wouldn't be able to freely inform him or advise him on the issue. That avenue was cut off. _But if she at least knew someone believed her…_He gave it some more thought. Perhaps the saviour-in-waiting could be of assistance. In Stan's opinion, there was one clear course of action. It was time to talk to John Connor.

--------------------------------------------------------------

xxx (End Chapter 5) xxx

Chapter Notes:

1. Spelling note: When Al is asking Stan to do the documentary, and he says, "…it has to be a full expose…", the second "e" in the word expose should have an accent over it, of course. (I don't think my computer can do that.)

2. To anyone who's read this far, I really appreciate your continued interest. Thanks very much!


	6. Double Exposure

**Afterimage **

by zerofret

Chapter 6: Double Exposure 

June 1995 –

Stan didn't approach John right away. He knew that the situation had to be handled with care. More problematic, however, were the things he _didn't _know. Did John even know about his mother's beliefs, and the activity that had resulted from those beliefs? And if he did know, how much of it did he believe himself? It was likely that other people had tried to influence John's opinion of his mother; they wouldn't want him to adopt her views. To John, Stan might seem like just one more adult – one more _stranger _– who was trying to sway his opinion and tell him what to think. What's more, Stan wasn't even sure what he wanted to talk to John about; the time just seemed right to approach him. It might be a relief for him to meet someone who _didn't _think his mother was a lunatic. Stan was careful to always keep one important fact foremost in his mind: regardless of what John Connor's future held, right now he was a ten year old boy. And while he suspected that John's lifestyle had probably made him wise beyond his years, it was vital to remain aware of his actual age, and to treat him accordingly.

But he wanted to have a chance to size up the kid before trying to talk to him. He wanted to have at least some sense of what he was like so that he could plan a suitable approach. To that end, he had decided that a little undercover surveillance was in order. And so it was that at dusk on a pleasant June evening, Stan had been parked curbside – in a rental car – on a quiet suburban street in Reseda. It was the first of several trips there. He had kept a close watch on the house at 19828 South Almond Avenue, the residence of Todd and Janelle Voight. The Voights were serving as John's foster parents while Sarah Connor was incarcerated. Stan had hoped that he might catch a few glimpses of John from this vantage point.

He had made every effort to be as inconspicuous as possible, taking several precautions in order to ensure it. The last thing he needed was to have some nosy and suspicious neighbour phoning the police to alert them that a stranger had been seen lurking on their street several times. So each time he had made a "visit", he had come in a different rental car. He had splashed the license plates liberally with muddy water, rendering them unreadable, staying just this side of legal. _That isn't exactly tampering with a plate, _he had convinced himself. _I just drove through a mud puddle, that's all. A very **big **one. _He wasn't deterred by the knowledge that L.A. was in the midst of a dry spell. The Voight's home was located at the connecting point of a "T" intersection; this had given Stan three different locations from which he could observe. He had chosen a different location each time, parking just over half a block away from the house.

He had also made an effort to disguise himself, if only slightly. There was always the chance that someone might notice his repeated presence despite the pains he had taken, so he had prepared for that. During his observation sessions, he had worn a New York Yankees cap tugged down low on his brow, obscuring his face. Not only did it hide his features to a degree, but also Stan believed that any observer's eye would be drawn more to the highly recognizable brand name logo than it would be to _him. _And that's what they would remember at a later date. If a neighbour were to call the police in regard to his repeated presence on the street, they would likely be asked to give a description. That description would go something like "a guy in a Yankees cap who never drives the same car twice". _Oh, **him. **That sure narrows it down, _Stan had chuckled to himself at the thought. He figured he could live with that level of risk.

Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead in a Yanks cap…which, of course, was exactly what made it the perfect disguise. A description of a guy in a Yankees cap wouldn't lead back to him, not unless he was careless and revealed other clues to his identity. And he had plenty of acquaintances who would back him up if questioned, and solemnly vow that Stan would never even _think _of donning such an item. So if the lurker was wearing a Yanks cap, it couldn't be Stan. It was hardly an airtight alibi, but every little bit helped. He had only grudgingly shelled out the twenty-five dollars necessary to buy the loathsome thing; but he had decided that if the evil empire of Yankee-dom could assist in making his mission a success, then he'd gladly accept the help. Certainly, the Bombers had given him enough heartache over the years. It was time for them to give something back.

Stan had been rewarded for his efforts, managing to get a look at John a few times. He had watched him come and go on his dirt bike, noting that he handled the vehicle deftly – if a bit recklessly – and with confidence. Other times he had seen John tinkering with his bike out in the driveway of his home. Sometimes he was alone; other times he had a friend along. And always, the radio was blasting music. John seemed like a pretty typical kid.

Except that he wasn't. John had already set himself apart from his peers. This wasn't surprising, since he hadn't been properly integrated with them through his younger years. Their interests had to seem impossibly trivial to him. Watching John, Stan had been highly aware that he was looking at a ten year old who already had a healthy rap sheet. The computer disk had supplied that information. It was all petty crime stuff: trespassing, shoplifting, disturbing the peace, vandalism. It could probably be attributed to the lifestyle that he had lived. _I guess that's what comes from being raised by Combat Woman, _Stan had concluded, rather sarcastically. The lucky kid had been given opportunities that most other kids didn't get. _See the world. Be all that you can be. Have a juvenile record in multiple countries before the age of ten! _Yes, John was very much his mother's son. How long before _he_ started trying to blow up buildings?

As for John's leadership potential, it had been hard to try to judge it while only watching him from a distance. The kid definitely had a certain cockiness to him. But when Stan had observed him alone – working on his bike, and lost in somber thought – it seemed to him that the bravado was mostly a front. He probably missed his mother; he might even be feeling abandoned. Stan noticed, though, that John's friends deferred to him as the decision maker amongst them. They tinkered with the bike when John wanted to. John chose the music they would listen to. They left to go elsewhere – the mall, a fast food joint – when John suggested it. Even from a distance, Stan could pick up on these power dynamics. In a way, John's friends seemed to be in awe of him. They probably understood innately that John had already had more life experience than they could even begin to imagine. And John, no doubt, was equally aware of his "different-ness". He couldn't blend in by just being like the other kids; he didn't know how.

Stan had also taken the time one day to drive east of the city to Chino. He had wanted to get a look at Pescadero. John would probably ask him about his mom, and he wanted to be able to assure him that the facility she was in was okay. After finding the place, he had parked a block down the street from the main gate. It was a security gate, of course, manned by a bored looking guard. A large sign on the perimeter fence read "Pescadero State Hospital". The state seal was nestled between the words "State Of California". But it was the description below this that had left him staring in bemusement. The half smile that had played across his lips had been one part mirth and one part creeped-out horror. He'd had an eerie sense of whistling past the graveyard. The sign identified the institution as "A Criminally Disordered Retention Facility". The wording created the impression that the facility itself _…and maybe the people who run it? _Stan wondered – was "criminally disordered". He had wished he could believe that the sign maker had been having some fun with them, but he knew that couldn't be the case. Obviously, the sign had been given the green light to be posted. _"A Retention Facility For the Criminally Disordered" really would have worked so much better, guys, _he had thought, shaking his head in disbelief. He sure couldn't tell John about this. A slight shiver passed through him. Maybe the sign was a cryptic indication of what this place was all about. If so, it didn't bode well for Sarah.

Looking beyond the sign, he had seen nothing at all to smile about. The building itself looked drab and severe. It was about four stories high; bars covered the windows. If the patients were troubled individuals, there wasn't much here to calm them or to cheer them. The building was surrounded by a tall chain link fence that was topped by spirals of menacing looking barbed wire. The grounds were well kept, but they lacked even a single splash of colour; there wasn't a flowerbed to be seen anywhere.

He had wondered if the treatment Sarah was getting here was equally soulless. The information about Silberman that he had been given suggested that it was likely so. And Al's revelation that a conspiratorial agreement had ensured that Sarah would never see minimum security only discouraged him further. She could be locked up – and drugged up – in maximum security indefinitely. "Welcome to the Hotel Pescadero, Sarah," he had said in a barely audible whisper, aware of a vague sense of dread rising within him. "You can check out any time you like…but you can never leave."

ooOOoo

On this day, however, Stan was driving north of the city. A few extra scenes needed to be shot for his current film project, and he was on his way to assess a potential location. As he drove, he mulled over the possibility of pursuing the Cyberdyne documentary, after his current film was completed. The prospect of challenging a company like Cyberdyne was daunting, but…_if Michael Moore can take on GM, why can't I take on Cyberdyne? _He'd give it some more thought, but he knew that eventually he'd have to do more than just think about it.

In any case, his thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He took a hand off the wheel to reach for it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Stan, it's Frank. I'm out here now. Are you on your way?" It was his location crew chief. He had gone out ahead of Stan to give the location a once over.

"Yeah, I should be there in about twenty minutes. How does it look?"

"Good. Great, actually. I think it's exactly what we need. There's just one problem."

"What's that?"

"Uh…well, they've doubled the rental price they quoted to us the first time we talked to them."

"What!" Stan was incensed. The crewman said nothing.

"You didn't tell them that we have no other options, did you?"

"No, of course not!" Frank protested.

"Bloodsuckers," Stan muttered. "Tell them to forget it."

His crew chief sounded a bit guilty now. "I don't know. Maybe they could tell I needed something quick, and they took advantage."

"Don't worry, Frank. It's not your fault."

"Is that official, then? You want me to tell them to forget it?"

"You bet your ass that's official!" Stan fumed. "And you can tell them that when I call them later I'll have a few _other _'official' things to say to them."

Frank sighed. "Okay. I'll start checking for other locations," he said, sounding a bit doubtful.

"Tomorrow's soon enough, Frank. Just forget it for today."

With the call complete, Stan now tossed the phone away with irritation; he paid no heed as it bounced off the passenger seat and came to rest on the floor.

"Damn!" he exclaimed, slamming the steering wheel with one hand. In doing so, he inadvertently hit the horn. The other drivers around him reciprocated with agitated glares. The driver of the car directly in front of him stretched his arm out the window and made a rude gesture. Stan ignored him, and took the next exit.

He pulled into a coffee shop drive-through, placed an order, then parked in the lot. He'd just sit here for a while and cool off a bit. But as he sipped at the hot coffee and watched traffic stream by, he continued to brood over the wasted trip. _The least they could have done was call ahead and tell us the terms of the deal had changed. _But Stan was well aware that doing so wouldn't have been in the best interest of the site owners. They had wanted to get Frank and him all the way out there, and _then _spring the news on them; no doubt, they had figured that Stan would agree to the price change just to know that he had secured a location. _Hell of a way to do business, _he stewed. Now he'd spend the rest of the day fretting about where they'd find another site. _Next time, I'll just take my whole production to Vancouver, right from the start, _he promised himself, his resentment still rising. He could see that stopping for a while wasn't helping to improve his mood any.

But as he finished off his coffee, an idea came to him. Maybe he could salvage something useful out of what seemed like a wasted trip. Reseda was only a few miles west of where he was now. Having come this far, he might as well check in at one of his surveillance spots; with luck, Connor would make an appearance.

_Sounds like a plan, _he thought with satisfaction, as he started the car. Maybe some good could come of this day, after all. He reached into the back seat for his "disguise". After groping around unsuccessfully for a moment or two, he looked back. The black New York cap was missing. Stan couldn't believe it; this _had _to be some kind of cosmic pinstripe revenge! Just when he needed them the most… He pounded a fist against the back of the passenger seat in frustration. "Damn Yankees!" he spit out with contempt, fully unaware of how comical the scene was.

He knew that it was nobody's fault but his own. He could picture exactly where the cap was. It was on the small table in his front entrance hall; that was where he had tossed it after his last visit to John's neighbourhood. So this time he would be going in his own car, and with nothing at all to disguise himself with. He peeled out of the parking lot with an angry squealing of tires, and drove west toward Reseda. _At least this day can only get better, _he assured himself.

ooOOoo

Finally, something went right. When Stan cruised by the Voight residence, John was out front with his red haired friend. Stan circled the block, then parked about four houses down, on the street that intersected South Almond. It wasn't a through street; it ended right where the Voight's house was. This gave Stan a head on view of what John and "Red" were up to. Which didn't seem to be much. John was sitting on his bike, talking to his friend. Guns'n'Roses blared forth from the portable stereo.

Shortly after his arrival, Janelle Voight made an appearance, too. Stan recognized her because he had seen the Voights come and go from the house once or twice. The morning paper was lying in the grass well within range of a lawn sprinkler. Janelle was rescuing it from a soggy fate, while getting liberally doused with water herself in the process. On her way back to the house she stopped briefly; Stan could tell that she was talking to John. And John, for his part, was being thoroughly unresponsive. While pointedly looking away from her, he revved the motor of his bike a few times to drown out her words. _Brat, _Stan thought, but not without some humour. Janelle retreated into the house.

Only a minute or two later, Todd Voight emerged from the home. No doubt he was there to take up Janelle's cause. But John was readying to leave; Red was now perched behind him on the bike. When Todd spoke to him, John only shot a few parting words over his shoulder before gunning the bike's motor and releasing the brake. He sped down the driveway and onto the street that Stan was parked on.

For a split second, Stan panicked. He didn't want John to see him. But he had only three or four seconds to think of a way to become invisible. Glancing around frantically, his eye fell on the clutter jammed between the two front seats. He quickly grabbed a map, spread it out, and held it up in front of him. He examined it studiously – his brow furrowed – and tried hard to look lost. Then lowering it just enough to peek over the top edge, he watched John pass within a few feet of him. As the bike roared by, John met Stan's gaze directly, and gave him a long look. So much for invisible. _Oh, that went well, genius, _he berated himself.

Stan was a bit startled by the very deliberate look John had given him. Had he known all along that Stan was watching him? He tried to dismiss the idea, telling himself that a kid like John probably had a well rehearsed defiant look that he used for _any _adult. But holding up the map had probably done more to draw John's attention than it had done to hide Stan. The map was still open, sitting on his lap. He started to fold it again, then noticed the large, bold print on the side that had been facing out the window: "Road Map Of Boston". Stan rolled his eyes in exasperation. _No one could be **that **lost, _he thought with disgust, while crunching the folds of paper together carelessly.

"Stupid, _stupid _map!" He threw it into the back seat. It seemed like the universe was against him today. It might be an explanation for John's odd look, though.

"Right…_John_," he remembered suddenly, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. The moment he had seen John coming down the driveway, he had known that the time was now. This was the time to try to talk to him. He'd be away from his home, so Stan wouldn't have to worry about the Voights' interference. And he was with a friend; that was good. It might give him a sense of security to have some backup nearby when he found himself being approached by a total stranger.

He glanced up into the rearview mirror just in time to see John – a couple of blocks away now – take a hard right turn, tilting the bike at a precarious angle. Stan smiled; he figured Red's heart must be in his throat right about now. He turned his car around and followed the two boys. It didn't take him long to catch up. When he regained sight of them, John had stopped the bike at a bank. Stan eased his car over to the curb and waited, as John and his friend dismounted, and then disappeared around the corner.

Only a minute or two later, they returned on the run. They were excited about something, and they seemed to be rather pleased with themselves. After they exchanged congratulations with each other, Red placed something into John's knapsack. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a different – and smaller – item. It was square-ish, thin…it might have been a photograph. Stan watched in surprise as John's mood changed instantly and visibly. His smile vanished, replaced now by a sullen pout. He snatched the item away from Red and threw it back into the knapsack. Stan wondered what it was, that it could have such a sudden and dramatic effect on John. Obviously, it was something of particular significance to him.

He shrugged off the incident, and pulled out into the traffic, pursuing the bike from a distance once more. Stan was able to keep pace for a few blocks. Then, to his consternation, John gunned the bike through an intersection at top speed, then simply dipped out of sight on the other side. It took Stan a second or two to realize what had happened. Once he figured it out, he finally accepted that this day was going to be nothing but difficult for him. John had guided the bike down into one of the flood control channels that ran through the neighbourhood. Stan caught a glimpse of John racing the bike along the currently dry channel at full throttle. This would make it harder to stay with him, but Stan was game.

He wheeled hard to the right instead of traveling through the intersection. For his efforts, he received an earful of angry horn beeping from other drivers, all of them expressing their annoyance at his failure to signal his intentions. Then he stepped down harder on the gas – as much as he dared to in a suburban neighbourhood – and raced along a street that ran parallel to the flood channel. Before too long, he had the bike and its two riders in his sights again. John was hurtling along with reckless abandon. From time to time he steered the bike through the trickle of water that ran through the middle of the channel, exuberantly tossing spray in all directions. Stan was somewhat reassured by the knowledge that at least there weren't any obstacles for him to hit down there. He winced as John shot under an overpass, almost skimming the wall of the center bridge abutment. _I stand corrected, _he thought, dryly.

He was relieved when John emerged from the flood channel and slowed to a more reasonable speed; the traffic was heavier here. But he continued to ride recklessly, weaving between rows of cars – oblivious to the lane markers – and coming close to clipping a side mirror or two. He maneuvered the bike to the outer lane, then swung right, into the parking garage of the Galleria Shopping Mall. Stan made a mental note of it and drove on past the mall. He wanted to give them a chance to get into the mall before he entered the garage.

Twenty minutes later, he circled back toward the Galleria. After entering the parking garage, he cruised slowly up and down the rows of cars, scanning for John's dirt bike. He soon came upon a parking area reserved for two wheeled vehicles; it was located on the ground level near the south elevators. All manner of motorcycles and dirt bikes were parked there, and Stan spotted John's bike among them. So far, so good.

He parked nearby in a space from which he had a clear view of the motorcycle parking section. This was where he would approach John. But John hadn't been in the mall for very long; he might have a long wait ahead of him. That was just as well, because he still hadn't quite figured out _how _to approach the kid or what to tell him. Sarah had probably researched Cyberdyne thoroughly. Maybe she had passed on what she knew to her son. If so, he and John could pool their information. The more he knew about this outfit, the better.

He closed his eyes and relaxed back against the headrest. He needed to form a plan, but he found himself unable to concentrate. His thoughts were mired in his set location problem. He tried to push those thoughts aside and focus on the immediate issue. But after about fifteen minutes, he gave up. Opening his eyes, he reached toward the radio. Turned it on. Fiddled with the dial. Turned it off again. Checked his watch. Retrieved the map of Boston from the back seat and folded it neatly, all the while wondering why he had put it between the front seats in the first place. Stored it in the glove compartment. Checked his watch.

He glanced over at the bikes; he had had his eyes closed for a while, after all. John's bike was still parked there. Now his eye was drawn to a motorcycle that was parked at the end of the row of bikes. It was the meanest looking one of the bunch – a Harley-Davidson – and it brought a smile to Stan's face. _Wow, _he thought, _if I ever make any money on this film – if I ever get it **done**, that is – maybe I'll get myself one of those._

On impulse, he got out of the car and walked over to the Harley to take a closer look at it. The look on his face was pure admiration. He stroked a hand along the machine, noting that the engine was still slightly warm. He took a cautious look around the garage, then hooked a leg up and over, and sat astride the bike. It was heaven.

"Oh man," he breathed softly, "this is amazing." For a minute or two, he just enjoyed the feel of the bike. Then he leaned lower, toward the handlebars, as if he were riding into a wind. Spontaneously, he began to sing quietly to himself, complete with musical accompaniment:

"Get your motor runnin' DAAAA da da da, Head out on the highway DAAAA da da da, Lookin' for adventure DAAAA da da da, And whatever comes ou- "

He froze. Someone _had _come his way while he wasn't paying attention. He could feel someone's stare boring holes in the back of his skull. Now a panicked crisis mantra began to repeat in his mind: _Please, don't let him be too huge. Please, don't let him be **too **huge. Please… _He turned his head slowly and looked behind him.

The little girl was probably about three years old. She smiled at him and waved. Her harried mother reached for her hand to pull her along, mumbling something to her about not staring. Stan grinned sheepishly, feeling foolish at having been caught in the act of enjoying his biker fantasy. But mostly he just felt relieved that it hadn't been the bike's owner standing behind him. He winked at the little girl, and offered a weak wave back at her. When the two were gone, he climbed off the bike, feeling a bit shaky. Okay, so he wasn't exactly the quintessential "easy rider".

"It's alright," he grumbled, consoling himself, "they got shot by rednecks, anyhow. Who needs that?" He didn't care to go looking for adventure; adventure could find him if it needed him.

He wandered back toward his car. He had just about reached it when he heard the stairwell door beside the elevator open with a noisy clang. That was followed by the sound of sneaker-clad feet pounding across the cement floor of the garage. He took a brief glance over his shoulder, then stopped short. It was Connor! _Perfect, _he decided. John had lost his friend somewhere along the way; he also seemed to be in one hell of a hurry. But Stan knew that this might be his best opportunity to talk to him. He started to walk toward the row of bikes.

"John!" he called.

Connor didn't seem to have heard him, so Stan called to him again. And he received no acknowledgment again. Clearly, the kid was preoccupied by something else – something urgent. Stan's call had been lost in the sound of Connor frantically and repeatedly trying to kick-start his dirt bike.

"Come on!" John coaxed impatiently, as the bike sputtered unco-operatively. He flicked a nervous glance over toward the stairwell door, which – as if on cue – suddenly opened inward again. A police officer strode out into the garage. He looked like he meant business, and John redoubled his efforts at the sight of him.

Stan was still walking toward John, but he knew already that his plan to talk to him had been foiled for another day. _A cop! _he thought, disgustedly. That could only mean one thing: Connor must be up to his petty criminal ways again. He eyed the blue knapsack hanging on John's back. What had the kid lifted? Certainly, John must have done something, because this cop sure wasn't looking like Officer Friendly.

The bike's engine suddenly caught and roared to life. John shot out of the row of bikes toward the garage exit. Only a moment or two later, Stan reached John's now vacated parking space. The policeman was still coming, and Stan could see that he intended to give chase. Still standing in the empty parking space, Stan watched the cop stalk by. He passed within a few feet of him, close enough that Stan could read the name "Austin" on his nametag and the number "572" on his badge. But the officer didn't spare Stan a single glance. His focus remained squarely on John Connor, as his purposeful gait now became a determined sprint.

At first, it looked as though the cop actually might catch John. Stan had stepped out into the garage's driving lane to watch the two receding figures. But soon it appeared that John was widening the gap. As he rounded a corner sharply, the outcome of the chase was still in doubt. Stan couldn't see them very well after that. He was able to catch only fleeting glimpses of John as he flashed past cement pillars and cars. Then he jumped the bike over a barrier and out of the garage, passing from Stan's sight. The cop was still gamely in pursuit, but Stan thought that his chances weren't looking very good. Connor handled that bike like a pro.

Almost immediately afterward, he heard tires screech out on the street as a vehicle braked hard. _Oh my God, the kid! _Stan thought, fearing the worst. He stood stalk still for several seconds, trying to decide if he should go and look. He took a few hesitant steps toward the street, then stopped and turned back. He was then startled by a tremendous crash. The sound had come from about a block down the street. Stan's guess was that a very large vehicle – a truck, probably – had smashed into a smaller one. Just what was going _on _out there?

He was still undecided as to what he should do. Should he go out and look? Should he try to follow in his car in case John managed to evade the cop? Should he forget the whole thing? He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, feeling upset and confused. It seemed that it had been his second wasted trip of the day. He was bitterly disappointed that his window of opportunity to talk to John had been slammed shut. When he heard the stairwell door opening behind him for yet a third time, he gave voice to that frustration.

As he spun around to look behind him, he demanded, "What is this, a freakin' _parade_ or someth- "

The words died in his throat. The world stopped cold. For all that Stan was aware of it, the world might have just gone away altogether. His universe had narrowed to what was directly before him. He was transfixed by the figure that was walking calmly toward him. If time travel did indeed exist, then Stan felt like he was experiencing it right there on the spot; he was instantly thrust back through time ten full years. He had been here – in this situation – before. It was him! Or rather, it was…_it_. It was the Terminator.

His mind rejected staunchly what his sight was telling him. _It can't be! It's not possible. Al said it wasn't coming back. And it **can't **come back. It was crushed, taken apart, **destroyed**._ He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nightmarish apparition away. But when he opened them again, nothing had changed. Something that he knew to be far less than human – a walking killing machine – still was approaching him. And it was making no effort to conceal the shotgun that it had clutched in its steely, flesh-disguised hand.

His thoughts were a jumble, unable to produce anything coherent. _R-n-m-v! _It made no sense at all; it was all just so much white noise in his head. It didn't much matter, because even if he could have made sense of his thoughts, he would have been entirely unable to act on them. Finally, though, he was able to decipher the message. His mixed up and panicked survival instinct had tried to tell him to "run" and to "move" at the same time. It had gotten its wires crossed in the process. Still, it seemed like sage advice, and Stan would have taken it if he hadn't become rooted to the ground. But he was stuck fast, as if a lightning bolt were grounding itself through his body.

He was still standing in front of John's vacated parking space. He wanted desperately to shrink back into it, to allow Skynet's "hit-bot" to move past. And if he could have retracted his sarcasm-laden words, he would have happily eaten them whole. In a heartbeat, he would have. The problem was he didn't seem to _have _a heartbeat just now; and in a moment, he might never have one again. So he stood like a statue, unable to take a single step to get out of the way.

When the thing was nearly upon him, his thoughts finally found their voice. _Don't look in its eyes, **don't **look in its eyes. _If anything, he knew that _that _was something he never wanted to experience again. He forced his gaze downward, where it came to rest on the shotgun. In the last interminable second before the Terminator reached him, he kept his eyes fixed on the weapon, waiting to see if it would be raised to shooting position.

So he wasn't ready for the heavy blow when it came; he didn't even see it coming. It sent him spinning and stumbling backwards. He wasn't knocked to the ground, but he slammed hard up against the motorcycle in the next parking space. He braced himself against it to stay on his feet, and to keep the bike from falling over. When he looked up again, he saw that the Terminator hadn't slowed its pace; it was continuing on its course, now moving away from him.

Stan had been hit hard…hard enough that he'd be sure to remember it for a while. But it hadn't been like being hit by the full force of a runaway freight train. More succinctly, it hadn't been as bad as ten years ago. This had been nothing but a brush-by. _But one hell of a brush-by, _he thought, defensively. Stan realized now that the cyborg had no interest in him; it had only shouldered him out of the way to get to where it was going. Once again, he had been spared because the T-800 had more important business elsewhere.

He stared after the hulking figure in disbelief, still unable to come to grips with the fact that it was here at all. How could it be? How could this thing be walking the streets of Los Angeles again? All he could do for the moment, though, was deal with the immediate situation, surreal as it was. The sense of it could be pieced together later, when his mental equilibrium had returned.

As he watched the cyborg stride away from him, he noticed something unusual. The back of its leather jacket was riddled with holes; they looked like _bullet _holes. Someone had been shooting at it; and judging by the shotgun in its hand, it had been shooting at someone, too. Or…it _intended _to. A fleeting moment of clarity broke through the murkiness in his head, and he realized what the machine's "more important business" might be. _Connor! _he thought, with alarm. The first Terminator mission, which had targeted Sarah, had failed; this T-800 must be on a mission to terminate John!

At that moment, the cyborg made an abrupt left turn. To Stan's horror, it stepped directly to the side of the motorcycle that he had been "trying out" only minutes earlier. His grip tightened on the motorbike he was leaning against. It was more or less the only thing propping him up; without it, he would have simply slumped to the ground.

_It's going to know I was on the bike! _his thoughts howled frantically. His brief seconds of lucidity now over, the panicked roar resumed inside his head. But he felt entirely disconnected from it; he felt disconnected from _everything. It's going to know! Of course it will, it's a machine. Its sensors will detect it or something. Then what will it do? It's going to – _

The Terminator paused now. Its head swiveled slowly on its neck as it made a deliberate sweeping scan of the parking garage. The gazes of man and machine met one another for only the briefest of moments – no more than a microsecond. But it was long enough for Stan to read soullessness and death in what passed for the cyborg's "eyes". The machine started to raise the shotgun…

_Yeah, it knows, _Stan thought with a sense of doomed certainty. He stood awaiting his fate, feeling entirely unable to do anything about it. He never could have guessed that it would end this way. Squeezing his eyes shut in terrified anticipation, he listened for the sound of the shot.

Thunk! Stan flinched at the sound, and his eyes flew open again. It hadn't been the sound of a gunshot, and he seemed to be entirely intact. A quick glance enabled him to identify the sound. The T-800 had holstered the shotgun firmly behind the Harley's seat. It was climbing onto the bike. Stan felt a rush of relief; he might get out of this yet. If everything else had gone wrong today so that this one thing could go right…well, at the moment that was looking like a very fair deal. _More _than fair.

The T-800 revved the Harley's engine and flipped up the kickstand. The bike rolled forward a few inches. Stan was almost holding his breath; in a few seconds, this would be all over. He just had to keep his cool for another minute or two. Then – with its hands gripping the bike's handlebars, and both of its feet planted solidly on the ground – the Terminator turned its head once more and fixed Stan with a long look. It was eerily reminiscent of the knowing look that John had given him that morning. _Yeah, it knows…and it wants me to know that it knows, _he thought weakly, deciding that he must be about as transparent as cellophane today. But fortunately for him, the machine assassin had more pressing matters to attend to. It looked away, then guided the bike smoothly from its parking space. It headed in the same direction that John and the cop had gone in.

Stan never would have believed that this entire encounter had transpired in little more than one minute. It seemed more like years. He stepped out haltingly into the driving lane and watched the leather-clad figure ride away. He didn't take his eyes off of it until he was certain that it was, in fact, leaving. Confirmation of this soon arrived; the sound of squealing tires and vehicles colliding carried to him from out on the street. Didn't _anybody _look both ways anymore?

Now, with the crisis over, Stan's knees turned to liquid, and he sank down onto the concrete. What he was feeling right now couldn't by any means be construed as happiness, yet he felt like a man who had just won the lottery.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner," he croaked, his throat feeling parched and constricted. Then he laughed, a bit too forcefully. The Terminator was gone; and he was still alive. How had he come face to face with this thing – or one of these things – _twice _now and managed to walk away both times? Walk away? He remembered that he had slid to the ground and hadn't walked anywhere yet. "Well," he said, still talking out loud to himself, "I _will_ be able to stand up and walk away…eventually." Again he was overtaken by laughter that bordered on hysteria.

He hadn't heard the elevator door slide open behind him. The voice that called to him made him jump. His nerves were shot.

"You okay, mister?"

He looked over his shoulder. Two teenage boys were standing by the row of motorcycles; they were peering at him with curiosity. Stan realized that he must look a sight, down on his knees in the dust and motor oil, babbling and laughing to himself. He raised a hand in acknowledgment.

"Yeah, fine, thanks," he assured them. He pointed at the ground. "Contact lens."

The two teens exchanged a wary, not-quite-believing look.

"Bummer," one of them sympathized.

"Yeah, bummer," the other one echoed.

They hopped onto their motorbike and zipped past Stan, oblivious to the imaginary contact lens. At last, the world started to return to normal. Stan, still slumped on the ground, was left to ponder whether or not he should follow the chase. Maybe he could help John…or at least warn him. John might not even be aware that a Terminator was on his trail. But two things made him vote in favour of inaction: every ounce of energy had been drained from him by his encounter with the T-800, but more importantly, he was unwilling to get anywhere near that cyborg-zombie-thing again. Not if he didn't have to. If push came to shove – and he was becoming quite accustomed to being shoved by Terminators – would he stand between the gun wielding robot and John Connor?

He didn't like the answer to that question, so his mind set to work on justifying his decision. Yes, Connor was being pursued by a Terminator, but he was also being chased by a cop. Who better to protect him? Stan couldn't imagine that he could do anything more than a cop could to help John. A policeman would at least have a weapon. Once he realized the kid was in danger, surely he'd protect him from…_four hundred plus pounds of homicidal steel and micro-circuitry, _he thought, with a shudder. Then he remembered that the cop was on foot, while John and the T-800 were on vehicles. He might have been left in their dust. But maybe Austin had a partner in a squad car who would have caught up to him. Or it was possible that that's what some of the squealing tires were about. Maybe he had flashed a badge and made some motorist stop so that he could use the car. But that seemed like a lot of effort to go to just to chase a kid who had probably only shoplifted.

Stan was well aware that there was another underlying reason why he didn't want to join the chase; it was specifically _because _of the cop. These Terminator things had a history with the LAPD, and it wasn't pretty; surely, the West Highland station had never been the same after May of 1984. So if the T-800 caught up to John and the cop, it might be lights out for _both _of them. Officer Not-So-Friendly Austin would never know what had hit him.

He looked up in response to the sound of sirens approaching. _Well, of course, _he told himself matter-of-factly. _There are plenty of car accidents to clean up out there, by the sound of it. Man, I hope the kid didn't get hurt. _With a heavy sigh, he started to climb to his feet. He was successful, although he staggered a bit, still feeling somewhat unsteady. It could be one long walk to his car. He swayed a bit, then fell forward, reacquainting himself with the ground.

As he struggled to get up again, his attention was drawn to something on the concrete floor, a few feet away from him. He crawled over to it and scrutinized it closely. Poked at it once or twice. When he held his finger up in front of him, he was staring at it as if he were a prospector who had just discovered a gleaming speck in a pan of sludge. There was no doubt about it, though; it was fresh blood. _Terminator _blood, he realized; the blood of the hunter. It fascinated him.

"Skynet, you clever son of a bitch," he breathed, with grudging respect, "that's putting the 'org' in 'cyborg', in a big way."

He rubbed his thumb and finger together, and watched the liquid smear. This meant that Skynet's henchman must be walking wounded. The back of its jacket _had _been shredded with bullet holes. Who might have pumped that many rounds into it?

Stan was re-energized by his discovery. He clambered to his feet, feeling much steadier now. As he examined the ground, he saw a few more dark spots. There weren't a lot of them – not what you'd call a trail, exactly – but Stan could see that the sparse scattering of drops led directly into the parking space where the T-800's bike had been parked. He walked over to the now vacant space and hunkered down to study the drops again. There was a slightly higher concentration of them here, and something glittered among them. Upon closer inspection, he could see small, ragged shards of glass lying on the ground. Some were clear; others were lightly splattered with blood. Still others were fully coated in the stuff. The glass was scattered only in areas where the blood drops were. Obviously, it hadn't been there before the Terminator had come by. It had brought the glass – andthe blood – _with _it. The bloodied pieces of glass must have been imbedded right into the 800's skin, falling out bit by bit as it walked. Bullets, blood, tiny daggers of glass. What had this thing been _up _to?

He wondered what the result would be if he were to have some of this blood tested to see what its component parts were. He decided to take a few of the blood covered glass shards, just in case he ever had reason to do that. Was this real blood or was it some kind of manufactured fluid? If it was real, where did it come from?…where did Skynet get it? And since a cyborg didn't have a heart – he felt he was on pretty safe ground with that assumption – then what circulated the stuff? And wouldn't it _have _to circulate for the tissue to remain healt –

"Excuse me, sir."

Stan sprang to his feet, startled. He had been so absorbed in his new find that he hadn't heard anyone enter the garage. A mall security guard was walking toward him. Stan casually stepped in front of the blood and glass, blocking it from view.

"The mall administration is considering clearing the premises. Unless you have important, immediate business here, we'd appreciate it if you'd exit the garage. No one is being granted entry to the mall right now."

"Clearing the premises? Is there a problem?"

"There have been reports of shots fired."

Stan's brows rose. "Shots!"

"Something happened in a maintenance hallway," the guard explained. "We don't believe the public is at risk, but we're taking all necessary precautions. We'd appreciate your co-operation."

Stan's heart sank. If he had to leave, with this guard watching him the whole time, he wouldn't be able to collect his samples. Not to mention that walking away would leave them in plain view.

"Was anybody hurt?" he asked, buying himself some time.

"I wasn't there," the guard replied. "I heard that a maintenance worker was caught in the crossfire. Another man was pushed through a storefront window. Some witnesses say he was _thrown _through, but you know…people exaggerate." He shrugged.

Stan nodded, taking a brief glance at the ground to make sure that no blood or glass was visible in front of him. "Uh, yeah, I suppose so," he agreed, sounding a bit distracted. He gave the guard a weak smile. _So **that's **what happened. That would explain the glass, _he thought.

The guard looked at him with renewed interest now. "You know, word is that one or two of the guys involved might have come this way, through the parking garage. You didn't happen to see a man with a firearm, did you?"

Stan shook his head earnestly. "No," he said, then added, "but I've only been here for a few minutes."

Both lies came easily. He wasn't going to get involved in this by admitting that he had seen the "man". And as for the second lie, it wouldn't be wise to tell a security guard that he actually had been here in the garage for over an hour, waiting for a young boy that he didn't know. That would not go over too well. He was glad, though, that he had decided to cover up the blood drops. If the guard saw them, it would blow the cover off of his lies pretty quickly.

His conscience wasn't bothered by his decision to lie. He could justify his answers…to himself, anyhow. After all, he hadn'tseen a _man_ with a firearm; he had seen an "it", a thing. And he _had _only been here for a few minutes. Before that, he had been, well…over _there, _a few parking spaces away. It was all a matter of semantics. _Oh man, I'm good, _he congratulated himself. _I missed my calling; I should have been a lawyer. _He couldn't help but emit a low chuckle.

"Is something funny, sir?" The guard was peering at him rather suspiciously now.

_Damn, _Stan scolded himself, _how could I be so stupid? _Now he'd have to think fast to come up with a satisfactory answer for the guard. Instantly, an idea came to him that would fit the bill. It would also allow him to achieve his objective of gathering a few artifacts, thereby finishing the work that the guard had interrupted.

"Actually, there is," he replied.

In response to the man's expectant look, he turned around and hunkered down, using his back to block the view of the ground. He quickly scooped up two bloodstained pieces of glass, and carefully palmed them. Then he selected a razor thin, clear piece. Rising to his feet again, he held up the sliver of glass, keeping it pressed between his thumb and finger in order to hide its ragged edges.

"You see, before you came out here, I was searching for my contact lens. Looks like I found it. I just stepped on it," he finished, with a sheepish what-can-you-do grin.

With the guard's attention fixed squarely on the "contact lens", Stan then used one foot to quietly drag some dust and dirt over the small concentration of blood drops and glass. His sly use of misdirection had allowed him to gather his artifacts _and _obscure the remaining evidence. The guard seemed not to have noticed a thing. _Mission accomplished, _Stan thought smugly, feeling satisfied with himself.

The guard wasn't entirely satisfied, though; he looked rather doubtful. "And you're laughing? Most people wouldn't find that very funny."

Stan shrugged in unspoken agreement, then sighed, "Well, it's just been that kind of a day, you know?"

At least that much he could say was the absolute and unqualified truth.

ooOOoo

He was back to square one. After having absorbed the contents of the videotape and the computer disk, in addition to his conversation with Al, Stan had thought that he had a well-informed understanding of the strange events that had commenced in 1984. But if he had thought that he had all of his ducks lined up neatly in a row, then it seemed that someone had suddenly – and cruelly – declared hunting season open. Now he had no ducks at all, and all bets were off.

He mused to himself that maybe that was an overly pessimistic attitude. After all, he wasn't back to the very beginning, with no information at all. But clearly, the information Alex had given him only five months ago was already outdated. It hadn't said anything about more than one cyborg. And the one he had seen today _had _to be a second one, because the first one had been totally destroyed. Pictures on the computer disk had shown not only the salvaged artifacts, but also the other crushed remains. So another Terminator was now on the loose, and this time the rumoured future saviour also seemed to be in the mix. He wondered if Sarah knew about any of this. Did anything of the outside world breach the defenses of the "criminally disordered retention facility"?

He was back at home now, resting comfortably on the couch and waiting for the eleven o'clock news. He was hoping that it might give some details about the events that had taken place in and around the Galleria earlier in the day.

In his hand he held a small, clear plastic case. Inside of it were the two pieces of glass that he had taken from the parking garage. The now dried blood on them had faded to a dull maroon colour. He tilted the case this way and that, watching the glass slide from side to side. What was he going to do with these? Probably nothing. Taking them to a lab might result in too many questions, if anything unusual were to show up. He had just felt compelled to gather some evidence; it was as simple as that. He didn't want to regret _not _having taken some, if it should become useful at a later date. For now, it would simply be stored, just like the videotape and the computer disk.

If a second Terminator was now in play, the primary question was: where did it come from? He thought he already knew the "why" of it. He couldn't say with _absolute _certainty that the T-800 had been following John and the cop. But it made sense; the pieces fit together. Besides, his gut told him it was so. A Terminator and a Connor in that close proximity to each other? Who else would it be after?

But the "where" was a trickier issue. He remembered how agitated Alex had been, as he had talked about how close Dyson was to unraveling the mysteries of the computer chip. Had he actually been _that _close? Was it possible that Cyberdyne had already put the technology to work and built a cyborg…here, in the present? The idea was almost too much to fathom. But if that were so, why would they have built it as a killing machine? Military contract, maybe? But why set it loose among civilians? And why would it have a bullet with John Connor's name on it? _Whoa, slow down there, _he cautioned himself. He had no absolute proof that it had killed anyone _or _that it had targeted John Connor.

But if Cyberdyne hadn't made it here in the present, then there was only one other explanation: Skynet had sent a second Terminator back in time, from the future, to serve its purpose. If anything like that could be believed. But what _wasn't _difficult to believe was that the machine mastermind would have a bullet reserved for the future General Connor. It would have as many as were required.

The events of the day had left Stan feeling physically and emotionally drained. He had forgotten entirely about his film location problem. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes for a while. He thought about the sparse scattering of blood drops on the parking garage's concrete floor. For a few brief moments, he forced himself to consider that the leather-clad gunman might be…just a guy. Not a robot. Not a cyborg. Not an infiltrator. But just a regular flesh and bone human, bleeding from a gunshot wound.

It was to no avail, though; he didn't believe it. He had seen too much to still believe it was just a man. That particular bridge had been burned long ago, and there was no going back. For Stan, believing that the gunman was human – and not robotic – now seemed _more _ludicrous than believing the reverse. And if that belief meant that his psyche was free-falling into the same abyss that Sarah Connor's had, well, so be it. At least he had company.

The top of the hour arrived, bringing with it the nightly newscast. An airbrushed-looking anchorman appeared on the TV screen, and announced: "Our top story tonight…chaos in a Reseda shopping mall…"

But Stan didn't hear him. And his eyes didn't open again. He had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep.

* * *

xxx (End Chapter 6) xxx.

Chapter Notes:

1. "Hotel California" (Felder, Henley, Frey) – The Eagles, 1976

"Born To Be Wild" (Bonfire) – Steppenwolf, 1968

2. John's friend's name is Tim, of course, (but Stan wouldn't have known that, therefore "Red").

3. A change of plans – I projected the story to be eight chapters. It's more likely to be nine or ten. There was so much to put into some of these later chapters that they were getting too long; it seemed better to split them in half, and make two chapters of them.

4. Chapter 6 posted March 17, 2005.


	7. Duplicate Print

**Afterimage**

by zerofret

Chapter 7: Duplicate Print

Stan woke up the next day at about 11:30 a.m. He was still lying on the living room couch, wearing the same clothes he'd had on yesterday. His arm ached dully; it wasn't too bad, but it would be tender for awhile. On the TV, a morning talk show duo were bantering back and forth cheerily with one another. He had missed last night's news, he realized, but he had slept off the shock of yesterday's events long enough that it was already nearly time for some mid-day news.

Rubbing at his bleary eyes, he shuffled into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. Then he washed up and put on some fresh clothes. Upon returning to the kitchen, he opened a cupboard and gazed sleepily at the contents within, trying to remember what it was he had wanted in there. He was reaching toward a can when he felt a soft but solid blow against his lower legs that caused him to sway and bump up against the counter.

"Hey, come on, Dew," he protested drowsily, "illegal tackle. Fair catch rule in effect."

He waved the can of cat food at him. The hungry feline started to weave a complex figure eight pattern around Stan's ankles, anticipating its breakfast. Stan popped the lid on the tin and was just about to dish out some cat food, when a powerful feeling of déjà vu suddenly swept over him. Fast on its heels came an equally strong sense of uneasiness. It made him pause momentarily.

"This is _exactly _the way it happened the other time," he said wonderingly. Dewey fixed him with an eternally wise look that seemed to say that _he _had figured that out long before the slow-witted human had; he returned his expectant gaze to the tin of cat food. Stan counted off the series of this morning's activities that paralleled those of ten years ago:

"I woke up wearing the same clothes I had on the night before. I slept through for twelve hours. I woke up with my arm hurting…but at least my head isn't, this time. I started the coffee maker…washed up and changed my clothes…" He looked down at Dewey. "…and fed you. Then I watched the news to try to get an explanation for everything that had happened. And that's exactly how things are starting out today."

Seeing that Dewey was thoroughly unimpressed by this revelation, he hurriedly set down some food. As the cat started to smack noisily and contentedly at the food, Stan added in a mock defensive tone: "If you had _any _idea what I was saying, you'd think this is weird, too."

He also knew the reason for his uneasy feeling. Ten years ago, when he had watched the news the day after, it hadn't been good. So far this day was echoing the events of that "day after" a decade ago. And he was just about to watch today's news. After making a coffee, he went back to the TV, bracing himself for what he might hear and see.

It was just as well that he had missed the news last night, because it quickly became clear that the stakes had already been raised again since then. Some of the key information would have been reported in too late to make last night's late news. Stan was thunderstruck right from the first news item. The anchorwoman started the newscast by describing scenes of carnage the likes of which hadn't been seen since…_well, since May of 1984, _Stan thought.

"Topping our news this midday," she began, "a grisly double homicide in a suburban Reseda home. Early this morning, police were called to the home of Todd and Janelle Voight, on South Almond Avenue. A neighbour of the Voights spotted the couple's dog lying in a pool of blood in its kennel. He knocked at the door of the home to alert the Voights, but he failed to get a response. He then called 911. When police arrived on the scene, they found the couple inside the home; both were deceased. Police say stab wounds appear to be the cause of death, but autopsies will be performed to determine whether or not other factors were involved. Officers at the scene seized a large, vegetable-chopping knife that was found on the kitchen counter; investigators haven't commented on whether they believe it to be the crime weapon. Witnesses say that a police officer was seen at the front door of the Voight home yesterday afternoon, but nothing unusual was heard or seen during the night."

The camera cut to footage taken at the scene, in front of the house; a middle-aged man appeared on the screen. A caption at the bottom of the screen read "Neighbour Called 911". He was shaking his head in disbelief.

"This is so tragic. I can't imagine who would do this. The Voights were good neighbours, good people. And Max, well, he'd never hurt anybody. I walked him now and then myself. I don't know the Voights' foster son too well. He's got a few family problems, I guess, but I'm sure he's a good enough boy. Plays his music too loud outside sometimes." He chuckled. "But you know kids. This is going to be devastating for him," the neighbour finished, his brief smile vanishing.

The anchorwoman continued: "Police are now trying to locate the Voight's foster son. The ten year old boy is the only other resident of the home."

Stan could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. The police didn't suspect _John, _did they? He knew that when John and Red had left the Voight home the previous day, both Todd and Janelle were very much alive. He had seen them himself. But the next time he'd seen John, a cop had been in hot pursuit of him. About two hours had elapsed in that time. Stan couldn't imagine, though, that John had gone back home for any of that time. He hadn't come for his dirt bike; it had been in the parking garage the whole time.

"An update now on our top story from last night, which also comes from Reseda. Chaos erupted in the Galleria Shopping Mall yesterday when two men engaged in a gunfight in a maintenance hallway. A maintenance worker was fatally wounded when he was caught in the crossfire. The fight resulted in one man being thrown against a plate glass store front window. The window shattered, causing him to fall out onto the mall walkway, but he didn't appear to be seriously injured. All other injuries reported were minor. The conflict then spilled out onto the street, resulting in a bizarre high speed chase that reportedly involved three vehicles."

"Police haven't commented on this incident yet, as the chase involved one of their own officers. They are also choosing not to comment at this time on whether the incident is connected to the South Almond Avenue murders. Witnesses say that an LAPD officer forcibly commandeered a tractor trailer cab. With no apparent warning given, he opened the door, pulled the driver out of the cab, and took control of the vehicle. He appeared to be pursuing a young boy who was on a dirt bike. The chase reached dangerously high speeds, and caused a number of other vehicle collisions."

"The truck later burst through an overpass railing, and plummeted twelve feet into a flood control channel. Some reports indicate that this may have been done _intentionally. _Incredibly, however, the officer continued the pursuit. At this point, a third vehicle – a motorcycle – had become part of the chase, as well. Ultimately, the chase came to a fiery end when the officer lost control of the truck. It crashed into a bridge abutment, and exploded moments later. There is no word as yet on the condition of the officer. The two cyclists fled the scene."

As she spoke, telling images appeared on the screen…images that filled in many of the blanks for Stan. A maintenance hallway with some bullet holes in the wall. A wall in the same corridor that had been broken through right into one of the stores. The jagged remains of a shattered store front window. Hundreds of shards of glass glittering on the mall walkway in front of the store. And finally, a flaming, twisted metal heap – that had once been a truck – crushed up against a bridge abutment.

The images explained a lot, but they didn't explain everything. It was clear now why the T-800's jacket had been shredded with bullet holes; obviously, they had been freshly put there just before Stan had encountered it. But by whom? The cop? It was equally evident why the cyborg had been dropping blood spattered glass as it walked. But the images didn't explain why one whole section of wall in that hallway had buckled. And while the camera shot of the burning truck showed where Officer Austin's chase had ended – perhaps tragically – it didn't explain the entire outcome. The cyclists had fled the scene. This statement still rang ominously in Stan's ears; that didn't sound too good for John. The crash would have put the cop out of the picture. And John's little Honda 125 would have been no match for the T-800's Harley; he wouldn't have been able to outpace it for very long. And once the Terminator caught up to him… Stan felt a lump rising in his throat. He genuinely felt scared for the kid.

It seemed there were yet more surprises lying in wait for him, though. "And the hits just keep on coming," he sighed resignedly, as he watched. _Like a heavy blow to the body, _he thought. And the next one was coming fast.

"…were also called to Pescadero State Hospital in Chino yesterday, in response to a breakout from the maximum security wing. Sarah Connor, who is serving time in the institution for her attempt to blow up the Cyberdyne Systems building in Irvine eighteen months ago, used armed force, and also took a hostage to aid in her escape. LAPD detectives say that the elaborate escape plan was two-pronged. Connor worked from the inside, while an armed accomplice – a man known to police – broke in from outside of the facility. They fled the scene in a stolen vehicle. A police officer briefly gave chase on foot, but he broke off his pursuit once the vehicle started to outdistance him. Connor and her accomplice remain at large at this hour. Police have posted an All Points Bulletin in an effort to apprehend the couple."

"This raises questions about the level of security at this facility, and about the relative safety of the surrounding community. Joining us now from his office at Pescadero is noted criminal psychologist Dr. Peter Silberman. Good afternoon, Dr. Silberman."

Silberman appeared on the screen wearing a forced smile. "Good afternoon, Lisa," he greeted the anchorwoman amiably. "Nice to be with you."

Stan peered at the screen closely. Something didn't feel right here already. The doctor was trying to look both pleasant and authoritative, but there was a haunted look in his hollowed eyes that suggested something more akin to terror. What had happened at that place yesterday? Was he being held responsible for Sarah's escape? _Perhaps the good doctor's ass is on the line, _Stan mused to himself. Then another possibility occurred to him: Silberman might be fearing the wrath of Greg Simmons. The Cyberdyne owner would be none too pleased that Sarah Connor had slipped her chains. The doc might be anticipating the release of some of that blackmail material Cyberdyne had in its possession.

"Doctor, could you start by explaining to us the nature of Sarah Connor's psychological disorder?"

Silberman favoured the viewing audience with a superior smile. For effect, he paused before answering, sanctimoniously folding his hands in front of him and resting them on his desk. As his arms came in contact with the desk top, there was a loud "clunk". The camera pulled back to reveal a cumbersome cast on his arm. Silberman seemed momentarily flustered, but he regained his composure quickly.

"It's actually a rather complex syndrome involving many different elements, paranoia and delusion, among others. Under _my _care – and with treatment techniques that _I've _created – Sarah was making very positive progress. But it would be far too difficult for me to fully explain the disorder in terms the layman could understand."

He smiled condescendingly. Having told the anchorwoman absolutely nothing except how brilliant _he _was – far too brilliant for the program's viewers to keep up with – she started to look slightly annoyed. He had given her nothing to build on. She adopted an "Okay, Mr. Big, we can play hardball" attitude, and went directly into tough investigative journalist mode.

"How is it that Ms. Connor's 'very positive progress' came to such an abrupt halt?" she asked.

"Well, like many disorders – both physical and psychological – response to treatment isn't continual forward progress. Setbacks are to be expected. Two steps forward, one step back," he explained, in a tone usually reserved for very young children. "But looking at the big picture, the patient _is _progressing."

"Then yesterday would have been _quite _a setback," the newscaster deadpanned.

"Er…yes," Silberman conceded, not quite sure if he was being ridiculed.

"I understand, doctor, that _you, _in fact, were the hostage taken by Ms. Connor."

The doctor responded haltingly, apparently suspicious of where this line of questioning was going. "Yes," he said uncertainly.

"That must have been a traumatic experience."

"We're fully trained in how to handle such incidents," he assured her.

"What would cause her to turn on her own doctor?"

Silberman wasn't prepared for the directness of the question; he started to flounder. "I'm really not at liberty to…" He stopped, then tried again. "Doctor-patient confidentiality forbids me to reveal too much about the case." But he forged on, nonetheless. "A number of the inmat-- _patients _in our facility are very disturbed individuals. Sarah is one of them. There isn't always a logical explanation for their actions."

He tapped his fingertips nervously on his desktop, then darted a quick glance over his shoulder. _He's checking to see if any other patient might be sneaking up behind him, _Stan realized. It was strangely humorous…and creepy. Still, the newscaster persisted; obviously, she felt that there might be a little more to it than that.

"I see," she replied dryly. "How is it that a patient was even _in _a position to be able to take a hostage?"

"I'm afraid Sarah took us by surprise," the doctor admitted.

The anchorwoman looked satisfied. "Evidently. But if the patients' rooms are securely locked at night, how was this able to happen?"

"Sarah had devised a very _elaborate _plan," Silberman sputtered. He was definitely rattled now.

"Yes, of course," Lisa-the-anchorwoman replied smugly. She had the self-important psychologist on the run, and she was enjoying it. "Reports have it that the 'elaborate plan' – in its entirety – consisted of…one paperclip." She held up a single paperclip for emphasis; she had come prepared for this guy. Stan knew this had to be an exaggeration, but he admitted it made for good TV.

Before Silberman could even protest that there had been more to it than that, the newscaster launched her final barrage.

"When this incident was happening, at least one guard wasn't at his post. And one orderly was not on his assigned rounds. How does Pescadero account for this?"

"There is a good reason for both of—" Silberman began. But she cut him off.

"It was left to one lone LAPD officer to pursue, and to try to apprehend, Connor and her accomplice. Shouldn't the facility's administration have to answer for such lax security?"

At the mention of the police officer, the doctor's demeanor suddenly changed noticeably. Stan watched in amazement as Silberman came fully unraveled right in front of a TV audience of thousands.

"I _know _what I saw," he muttered under his breath. His eyes had taken on a vacant, glassy look. He seemed to be seeing something that was visible to no one except himself.

"Excuse me?" The newscaster sounded confused.

"Come with me if you want to live."

"I'm sorry, doctor, but I'm not sure what point you're addressing."

But the doctor seemed not to hear her; he was drifting further within himself.

"The bars…right _through _the bars…"

With the camera still on Silberman, the anchorwoman could be heard in the background. "Go to the clip…the _clip,_" she was urging in a loud whisper. The camera shot returned to her, and she smiled stiffly.

"Thank you for being with us today, doctor."

Silberman appeared on the screen for a final time. He seemed to be totally unaware that he was being spoken to.

"…kill us all…"

The feed cut off abruptly. The newscaster tried on a pleasant, everything-is-under-control smile. "That was, uh, Dr. Peter Silberman, a criminal psychologist at Pescadero State Hospital. We have a second report from our crime bureau."

A pre-recorded tape, the clip she had been urging them to go to, started to roll. A man, whose face had been hideously smashed up, was being interviewed. He had chosen to be identified only by his first name. Print at the bottom of the screen read: Doug – Pescadero Orderly. He was trying, with limited success, to speak through swollen lips and a broken nose. He nodded in confirmation when asked if Sarah Connor had caused his injuries.

_She sure didn't do **that **with just a paperclip, _Stan thought.

"I don't understand it. It's shocking and disappointing," the orderly was saying sadly. "We give the patients here the best care that we possibly can. We treat them like family. Both Dr. Silberman and I have had very good rapport with Sarah. She trusts us _implicitly, _and she knows that we always have her best interests at heart. But the patients in this wing of the hospital can be unpredictable. Sometimes things like this will happen no matter how well we treat them." He tried for a sincere looking smile, but it quickly dissolved into a grimace of pain.

Stan, however, wasn't buying what the orderly was selling. "Yeah, I'll just bet Sarah is your gooood friend," he drawled softly, as he noted the extent of the man's injuries. The raw viciousness of the attack led Stan to believe that a personal score had been settled. A little payback for previous "services" rendered, maybe? But seeing the condition that both Doug and Silberman were in forced him to consider carefully what Sarah might be capable of. No one had said that Sarah was responsible for the cast on the doctor's arm, but Stan felt that it was a pretty safe guess.

So…could _Sarah_ have been responsible for the double homicide at the Voight residence? If she had gone to such violent extremes to break out of Pescadero, might she have gone to similar lengths in order to retrieve her son from the Voights, as well? His mind balked at the idea.

But he didn't have enough details about the timing of all of these events to know if that was even possible. What order had they happened in? Of course, Sarah could be ruled out as a suspect in the Voight murders if they had occurred _before _her breakout. _But, _he thought in frustration, _I don't know if they did. _The news report hadn't mentioned what time the Pescadero breakout had happened.

Then the knot in his stomach loosened slightly, as he remembered a detail of the crime scene that the news report had mentioned. That one detail convinced Stan that Sarah was not responsible for the gruesome act. It wasn't _proof_, no, but it was good enough for him.

"The dog," he stated, quietly but emphatically. Even the Voight's dog hadn't escaped the killer's wrath. It had been locked in its kennel – a threat to no one – so it hadn't been killed in self defense. It had been killed for no apparent reason…maybe just to keep it quiet. And that didn't sound like something Sarah would do. Not even the reinvented Sarah Connor would do that. _**Especially **not her, _Stan thought. The information on Alex' computer disk had indicated that Sarah, despite all her transience, _always _owned a dog. The information contained references to the fact that Sarah had been told that dogs could detect Terminators. It raised the concept of "man's best friend" to an entirely new level. Stan felt sure that the importance of dogs in the bleak future that Sarah believed in would carry symbolic weight for her in the present. It was unlikely that she would harm one without very good cause. Stan was comforted by the realization that he truly believed that. And in his view, it ruled out Sarah as a suspect in the Voight killings.

Sarah had rarely been in need of a dog as much as she was right now. There _were _worse things than Pescadero State Hospital. Having escaped her prison, she could very well come face to face with her worst nightmare once again. There was a Terminator on the loose in L.A. Did she even know it? It wasn't likely. She had been sequestered in maximum security at Pescadero; the patients there probably weren't exposed to anything "upsetting" or "agitating"…like the daily news. Sarah would have no knowl—

The picture that flashed onto the screen now stopped him in mid-thought; his eyes widened in surprise. Two different photos were being shown side by side. One was a picture of Sarah Connor; the other – incredibly – was a photo of the T-800 infiltrator.

"Police have released these photos. Connor and her accomplice fled the scene in a security guard's cruiser. Police speculate that they will now be heading south. Any sighting of the stolen vehicle or the fugitives should be phoned into the Los Angeles Police Department immediately."

For Stan, it was as if someone had overturned his chessboard just when he had his strategy mapped out. If seeing the T-800 the day before had shocked him into realizing that his information was already outdated, then he was _beyond _confused now. Sarah and a Terminator…together! The _T-800 _was the "accomplice"? It was surreal.

"…considered armed and extremely dangerous. They absolutely should not be approached for any reason. Connor's accomplice is believed to be the man still wanted for the 1984 slayings of seventeen police officers at the West Highland police station. He is known to have shot a guard to gain entry to the Pescadero grounds, and he is a suspect in the murder of an LAPD motorcycle officer. The officer was found, already deceased, near the facility's grounds."

This shed a whole new light on everything. _Or it clouds the issue even further, is more like it, _Stan brooded. _He's dangerous all right. Or rather, **it's **dangerous. _The million dollar question was: why was it not dangerous to Sarah? Ten years ago it – or one just like it – would stop at nothing to end her life. Now it was her partner in crime; it was assisting her. _The snow has got to be falling in hell,_ he decided, thoroughly bemused.

If it was in league with Sarah, then it seemed likely that it would mean no harm to John, either. Stan started to form a theory. It was a Terminator; that meant it had to have _some _kind of target. As he looked at the T-800's impassive face on the TV screen, he had a strong sense that he was looking at the Voights' killer. If the T-800 was aiding Sarah – as hard as that notion was to swallow – maybe that was one way that it had "helped" her. These cyborg things weren't exactly noted for their subtlety. Perhaps killing the Voights had been its heavy handed way of trying to retrieve John for Sarah. The Voights might have simply been unfortunate and hapless "obstacles" that had found themselves between the machine and its mission objective.

"Reports of a child traveling with the fugitives – possibly Connor's ten year old son – are unconfirmed at this time."

Stan addressed the TV screen, saying softly: "It's like you read my mind." He was satisfied that his theory was holding up. Having dispatched Todd and Janelle – only to find that John wasn't at home – the T-800 would have realized that the act hadn't been necessary at all. This, of course, would have bothered the machine not one bit. After leaving the Voights' house, it had located John at the Galleria. It had given chase, but not for the purpose of terminating John. No, the mission must have been to collect John and take him to Sarah. That way, when Sarah and the T-800 launched the Pescadero breakout, John would already be with them. They wouldn't lose time going to get him. If their plan succeeded, they could head directly south.

Stan thought for a minute or two about what he had pieced together. Then he sighed to himself: _Maybe that's right, maybe that's wrong. Who knows? _It was exhausting always being a few steps behind, forever playing catch up.

The newscast droned on with more, mostly bad, news. But Stan had stopped listening; he had heard what he wanted to hear. _More _than he wanted to hear. He continued to sift through the information he had heard, organizing and categorizing it in the hope that answers to his questions would become more apparent. Some of it didn't add up. How could Sarah have launched a "two-pronged" escape plan with _anyone, _given that she was allowed no contact with people on "the outside"? He gave the matter his full concentration.

"…LAPD officer was fatally assaulted early yesterday morning near the Sixth Street Bridge and Santa Fe. He was last heard from shortly after five o'clock a.m. when he reported an electrical disturbance. Oddly, this was the second such incident of the morning. A similar disturbance was seen near The Corral tavern in Acton. Witnesses reported the strange scene to police who had been called to the restaurant to investigate a motorcycle theft."

"In the Sixth Street bridge incident, Officer Joseph Austin is believed to have been attacked by a single assailant. He died from internal injuries suffered as a result of a single heavy blow to the body. Thirty-four year old Officer Austin was a nine year veteran of the Los Angeles police force."

The words were starting to pierce through Stan's intense concentration. He returned his attention to the news report. Austin? That was the name of the cop that had been chasing John Connor the previous afternoon. He had noticed his name tag. Actually, he had noticed all of his insignia. Austin, Badge #752. He had only noticed – and remembered – the latter because the number matched an apartment address he'd had at one time.

On the screen was a formal portrait of a man wearing an LAPD uniform. The tag pinned to his shirt had the name "Austin" printed on it; his badge number was 752. It was the insignia of the officer he had seen yesterday; everything matched. Everything but the _face. _Stan was sure that it wasn't the same man. The smiling, personable-looking man on the screen bore no resemblance whatsoever to the grim-faced cop he had seen in the Galleria parking garage. But if the man who had been chasing John _wasn't _Officer Joe Austin, then who was it?

"Officer Austin is survived by his wife, and their two year old daughter," the newscaster concluded.

Upon hearing that, Stan's stomach did a lazy roll. And he had to admit to himself that he knew the answer to his own question. He knew part of the answer, at least. _It was Austin's killer, of course, _he surmised. But what did it all have to do with John? Why would a cop killer end up chasing a ten year old boy? Unless…

_Two, _he thought. _Last time there were two. _A cyborg assassin and a human protector. It could be the same this time. Maybe the "cop" had meant no harm to John at all. He might have been pursuing John to warn him about – or to protect him from – the Terminator. And if he had traveled back in time from the same brutal future that Reese had come from, he would have been quite prepared to take drastic measures in order to succeed in his mission. If that meant killing a cop and assuming his identity in order to better blend into 1995 L.A., he would be willing to do that. The pieces were starting to fall into place. Yeah, that had to be it.

No. As quickly as his theory had come together, it now crumbled to pieces. _No, that can't be it, _he corrected himself. The news report had made it clear that the T-800 was traveling _with _the Connors; it was aiding them. For reasons unknown, it was not a threat to them. That, in turn, meant that no human protector was necessary. Still, Stan had no doubt that the man had been determined to catch John. The issue now was whether his intentions toward John had been for good or for ill. All he knew was that the man _wasn't _a cop and that he had quite possibly killed a police officer so that he could assume his identity. He was a wild card; Stan felt certain that he figured into things, he just didn't know how.

Stan was also puzzled – even irritated – by one other thing. It caused him to take impulsive action. Sweeping his car keys off of the front hall table, he headed out the door. After driving for half an hour, until he was a good distance from his own home, he started to search for a pay phone. When he spotted one, he parked around the corner and walked back to it. After slipping some coins into it, he dialed a general number for the LAPD. A man answered after the second ring.

"I have a question about that homicide that happened yesterday. The policeman. Austin?" Stan could hear the nervousness in his own voice.

"Do you have some information, sir?" the desk sergeant asked.

"No. A question. I said I have a _question_!"

_Cool it, _he warned himself. He tried to reign in his agitation. The sergeant was hesitant, which Stan didn't find surprising at all. He knew that you couldn't just call the police and ask questions about a murder case; they didn't give out that kind of information. He was having second thoughts now, realizing that he was risking coming under serious suspicion himself here. But he felt compelled to continue.

"Sir, perhaps I should put you through to one of our detec—"

"Why aren't you warning the public that someone who murdered a police officer is now out there _impersonating _that officer?" Stan blurted out.

There was a measured silence, then a baffled: "Sir?"

"I _saw _the guy. Yesterday. He was wearing Austin's uniform…but he wasn't Austin. I saw the officer's picture on TV today, and I know it was a different guy. So when you found Austin without his uniform on, you must have known that the killer took it. Well, he's out there on the streets _wearing _it."

Stan could sense that it was startled silence on the other end of the line now.

"But his uniform wasn't mi—" The sergeant cut off his own sentence quickly, if a bit too late. He regrouped and asked Stan, "What makes you think the officer was found without his uniform on?"

In the brief moment of silence that followed, Stan heard an odd series of clicks on the phone line. Then the sergeant said: "I really should put you in touch with one of our—"

"Never mind," Stan replied tersely. He hung up immediately.

_But his uniform wasn't missing. That's what the sergeant started to say. _It was a lie; it had to be. The uniform had to be missing because he had seen the other man wearing it. They couldn't be both wearing it, complete with all of the official insignia unique to Joseph Austin. That was impossible.

As he stood staring at the phone, he suddenly remembered the clicks he had heard on the line. The sergeant had probably had a detective start to listen in. No doubt the police would want to know how he had come by _his _information. They had probably been recording his call; they might have been trying to trace it, as well. He took a nervous glance around; it would be best for him to get out of here fast. Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped down the phone receiver carefully, then walked rapidly back toward his car.

ooOOoo

Stan had started to feel that nothing could surprise or shock him anymore. He was fully expecting – as he turned on the news the following day – that he'd hear a litany of disastrous events, all of which could be attributed to the T-800. He was right; that was exactly what happened. But this time, Sarah Connor stood alongside the death machine, assisting in – and even initiating – much of the carnage. Stan had expected that when Sarah escaped, she would make for the border as quickly as possible. Instead, she had returned to the scene of her crime. And she had succeeded in completing her unfinished business there.

As Stan stared numbly at the TV screen, watching the raging inferno that had been the Cyberdyne Systems building, mixed feelings roiled within him. Part of him was in a state of utter disbelief. Despite the drastic change she had undergone, it was hard to accept that Sarah Connor, someone he had known personally, could be responsible for such an act. Another part of him felt relief. If everything he had been told was true – everything Alex had told him, all of Sarah's claims – then perhaps he was witnessing nothing less than the saving of the planet's future.

And as the flames engulfed and consumed the building, Stan realized that a considerably darker part of himself felt satisfaction. The shady corporation and its scheming CEO deserved to be brought down. _They ruined Sarah. They ran Alex out of the country and into hiding, _he thought, with rising hostility. _I won't shed any tears for Cyberdyne, that's for sure. _

But the feeling was short lived, and Stan learned quickly that there _were _things that could still shock him to the core. The newscast revealed that Miles Dyson, Cyberdyne's top researcher, had died in the assault on the company's headquarters. Dyson had been shot; he had still been in the lab when the building had erupted. It was believed that Connor and her accomplice had coerced him into gaining them entry to the Cyberdyne building. There was evidence of heavy gunfire at his Laguna home. His work records had been destroyed, and his family was missing. All of this _did _hit Stan hard. He had liked Miles a great deal, having come to know him from his annual ball game outings in the Cyberdyne corporate box. He had met Tarissa and the kids, as well, and he now feared for their safety. Surely, Sarah wouldn't have done anything to _them. _But how able was she to control this Terminator thing?

One lasting image from the news report nagged at Stan. It was a camera shot of the Cyberdyne building, taken minutes before it had exploded. The front window pane of an upper floor had been broken out. The hulking figure of the Terminator stood framed in the jagged glass; it wielded a massive mini-gun effortlessly, as if it were weightless. It opened fire on the parking lot, methodically strafing the haphazardly parked police cruisers below. Police and Special Forces officers could be seen diving for cover frantically, as a blizzard of glass suddenly raged in the warm night air.

There had been no fatalities. That was what the news report had said: not a single death. It didn't make any sense to Stan. What kind of a Terminator _was _this? These things didn't miss their target very often. They never missed _that _badly. And Skynet certainly hadn't sent this one on a mission to assassinate cars. It had had the opportunity to take out twice the number of law enforcement officers as the first Terminator had. It could have made the 1984 West Highland Station massacre look like a warm up act.

But it hadn't. Just as it hadn't harmed John when it had caught up to him. Just as it hadn't harmed Sarah when it had located her at Pescadero. And now, at Cyberdyne, it had caused the greatest amount of mayhem possible; but quite intentionally, it had not shot anyone fatally. A kinder, gentler Terminator? _Can you say oxymoron? _Stan mused sourly. It was one more mystery for him to solve.

There was no denying that there was something very different about this Terminator. It seemed to behave almost as if…_as if it has a conscience, _Stan marveled. Still, he thoroughly rejected the idea of that being possible. The weapons display had never been intended to harm anyone; its purpose had been to buy Sarah more time in completing her work in the Cyberdyne lab. It had been simply a distraction technique…a totally over-the-top and terror-inducing one, to be sure, but in the end it had been just a means of keeping the police at bay. It was the Terminator's infallible marksmanship that had _saved _the officers at Cyberdyne; it had chosen not to hit them.

Stan couldn't begin to guess what the motives were for the T-800's behaviour, but he was starting to believe that he knew what the key piece of the puzzle was. The meaning of it, however, was still maddeningly elusive. It was the cop; not just any cop, but _the _cop. The news report had talked about extraordinary – and highly erratic – actions taken by one LAPD officer in his attempt to apprehend the fugitives. Why he had ridden his motorcycle right into the Cyberdyne building and up several flights of stairs was unclear. What was known, though, was that he had accelerated across an office floor, smashed the bike through a front window, then clung to a nearby hovering helicopter as the bike plunged to the ground. He had then managed to commandeer the helicopter – with one unfortunate soul falling out of it in the process – and he had pursued the escapees in a wild highway chase. Speculation was that the officer had lost control of the bike, causing it to accelerate accidentally. In an unbelievable stroke of good luck, when the bike had come rocketing through the window, the helicopter had been hovering in the right place at the right time.

Stan scoffed in derision at this explanation; it was unbelievable all right. He knew that that wasn't what had happened at all. There had been no luck involved. It had been fully intentional. And the pilot hadn't _fallen _from the helicopter; surely, he had been "helped". _Officer Not-Austin, I presume, _he mused, paraphrasing another Stanley. The cop in question was the Austin imposter. Stan felt sure that it had to be. He had pursued John at least once before; clearly, he was still on the chase. And he was willing to go to any lengths to get to him. But why? This man was the key to understanding the new series of events that mirrored those of 1984.

As usual, where Sarah and the T-800 went, chaos followed. The Terminator, Sarah, and John had fled the Cyberdyne site in a SWAT van that was fully stocked with weapons. They had actively engaged in a firefight with the "cop" as they raced along the highway. Their high speed chase had caused a number of other accidents, one of which had included a chemical spill. The details on the news were hazy and incomplete, but apparently the chase had come to an end in a steel mill. That was where a liquid nitrogen spill had occurred, when a Cryoco Company tanker truck had overturned and crashed. The rest of the chase had played out in the depths of the steel mill. The outcome was unknown.

All the police could report was that Sarah Connor, her accomplice, and her son had already fled the premises by the time officers had arrived on the scene. They also had no official comment in regard to witness statements that claimed that a single LAPD officer had crashed both a helicopter _and _a tanker truck.

Stan was coming to a conclusion that would have seemed too bizarre to consider, at one time. He made a mental checklist. The "cop" had run a semi cab off of an overpass into a flood control channel. He had crashed the cab into a bridge abutment, causing a spectacular and fiery wreck. He had jumped a motorcycle out of an upper story window. Finally, he had indeed crashed both a helicopter and a chemical filled tanker truck, within minutes of each other. And incredibly, he had walked away from _all _of it. He seemed to have more lives than a room full of cats. This man wasn't just an imposter. It went well beyond that. Not only was he "not Austin"; he was also not _human._

Again Stan found himself thinking, _Last time there were two… _One Terminator. One Protector. This time, the T-800 was working _with _Sarah and John, and it appeared to be protecting them. Was it possible then that it was the _cop _who was the Terminator, a wolf in sheep's clothing? Maybe it was a Terminator model even more advanced than the T-800, sent by Skynet to this time period to target John. Perhaps the entire nightmare was playing out all over again. He sighed heavily. _If anyone knew I was thinking this kind of thing, they'd give me Sarah's room at Pescadero. _

The police had made one final, cryptic comment about their investigation at the steel mill. They said that they had removed some rather "unusual" evidence from the scene. They believed that the item they found would aid in their further investigation.

"Let me guess," Stan had commented wryly, talking to his TV. He had been unable to shake the ominous sense of déjà vu that had come over him yesterday. "You found part of a robot in a hydraulic press, right?"

ooOOoo

In the few days after, there were no sightings of the fugitives reported in the news. They had effectively vanished into the ether. This surprised Stan not one bit. He knew that Sarah, being ever resourceful, would go to ground like a wily fox. She would then rely on her extensive network of contacts to quietly spirit her away to safety. She had probably long since gotten her motley trio across the border.

But if the T-800 was rather conspicuous even in Los Angeles, Stan could only imagine what they might make of it in some small Mexican village. A smile crossed his face at the thought. And what did a Terminator _do _after its mission was accomplished? Get an office job? Shut down and moonlight as a coat rack? Stan chuckled to himself as he considered the possibilities. But he had no way of knowing whether its mission had actually been accomplished or not. It might be ongoing. And he didn't even know if the T-800 was with Sarah and John still. It all depended on what had happened in the steel mill. Again and again, his thoughts returned to the comment the police had made about finding unusual evidence in the steel mill. Could it be that they really _had _found part of a destroyed Terminator? It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, because it wouldn't be the first time.

But perhaps the most frustrating result of the previous few days' events was that Stan hadn't gotten to talk to John. He hadn't managed to get the video or the computer disk to him. And now John and Sarah were gone; the evidence he possessed couldn't help them. Maybe it didn't matter, though. They might be in possession of the best piece of evidence of all. A walking, talking piece of evidence that was outside of Cyberdyne's – and apparently Skynet's – control.

But Stan still found it hard to believe that Sarah could ever trust the cyborg, or let down her guard while it was around. There was too much history there. Surely, theirs had to be an alliance of necessity, nothing more.

_Maybe, _he thought, _when there's something even worse chasing you down, you'll make a pact with the devil you know. _

He decided that his next step would be to try to acquaint himself with the devil he _didn't _know. But, unbeknownst to Stan, he himself was in the crosshairs, having become someone's mission objective.

* * *

xxx (End Chapter 7) xxx


	8. Overexposure

**Afterimage **

by zerofret

Chapter 8: Overexposure

The days after the destruction of the Cyberdyne building dawned bright and sunny over Los Angeles. The ideal summer weather was almost enough to make _anyone _dismiss ideas of a post-apocalyptic world left in ashes, a homicidal supercomputer, or an army of killer robots. Such ideas would seem absurd as one walked amongst the beach-side sun bathers, roller-bladers, and general fun seekers. But the operative word was "almost", and relaxing on the beach was the furthest thing from Stan's mind. It was these very thoughts of humanity's potential dark future that occupied his mind, as he drove from the bright sunlight into the shadows of the Galleria Shopping Mall's parking garage.

It had been two days since the events at Cyberdyne, and now Stan was on a mission of his own. He was going to find out what he could about the "X factor" in this increasingly complex equation: the "cop". Who or what was it, and what were his/its motives? Like any good detective, he was starting at the source. It was here at the Galleria that he had first encountered the definitely-not-Austin, maybe-not-human LAPD officer. He had passed within inches of Stan right in this garage, and at the time, Stan hadn't had any reason to believe that he wasn't as human as the next guy. But he had plenty of reason to believe it now.

He wanted to get a look at the corridor where the shooting had taken place. Having no idea where in the mall it had happened, he approached it methodically. He entered the public part of the mall on the main floor and started to look for doors that accessed maintenance corridors. Each time he found one, he explored the hallways behind it quickly but thoroughly, looking for signs of the shooting. He expected that it wouldn't be hard to find the right place; the news had shown corridor walls that had both buckled and been broken right through. But after finishing with the main floor, he had come up empty.

_They couldn't have fixed those walls already, _he mused to himself. _It happened only a couple of days ago. _He moved to Level 2 and continued his search.

By the time he had reached Level 3, he was feeling discouraged. He hadn't found so much as a nick in any maintenance corridor wall yet. He started to wander the hallways again, hoping that Level 3 would prove to be the location that he sought. In the end, he stumbled upon the right spot quite by accident. Having reached a corridor intersection, he paused to determine which way he should go. _Left, _he decided. He turned in that direction, casting only a quick look over his shoulder – to the right – to see what was down "the road not taken".

There wasn't much…just a Pepsi machine. But it was enough to give him second thoughts. _I could use a drink right about now, _he thought. All of his so-far fruitless wanderings had caused him to build up a thirst. Fishing in his pocket for change, he started down the hallway toward the machine. But as he drew closer to it, something else caught his eye. The corridor directly across from the Pepsi machine was cordoned off with yellow police tape.

"Bullseye!" he exclaimed softly, immediately forgetting the Pepsi. He took a look around the corner; there was no one in the hallway. After glancing around and determining that all of the corridors within view were empty, he quickly ducked under the police tape. Beyond that barrier he found everything he had been looking for. To his left, a brick wall had buckled partially; small pieces were still crumbling away. To his right, a fibreboard wall had been broken clear through. Here and there the walls showed scarring, possibly from gunfire. There were even some light flecks of dried blood on the wall. These were located directly beside a maintenance room door with a "Danger High Voltage" sign posted on it. The door hung askew, its lock broken.

The worst of it was a little further down the corridor from that door. Despite cleanup crews having tried their best, there was still an obvious large, brown coloured stain on the floor. Around it, Stan could see a few remaining traces of a police chalk outline of a body. Stan knew it had been that of the maintenance worker who had gotten caught in the crossfire. He gazed down at the stubbornly remaining evidence of the man's one-time presence there. "Poor bastard," he whispered. By the look of it, he had taken several shots.

"Oh man, you can't be back here," a voice came from behind him.

Startled, Stan turned quickly to see who had crept up on him. For the briefest second, he panicked that it might be the security guard he had talked to in the parking garage a couple of days ago. If he found him back here… But it wasn't the guard; it was a teenager. He stood leaning on a mop that was settled into a water pail on wheels. He had removed a set of earphones from his head; they rested around his neck now, with tinny sounding rock music blaring from them. Stan looked at the earphones, then down at the rolling water pail, and asked himself, _How did I not hear **him **coming? _

"Are you lost?" the kid asked. "Is there a particular store you're looking for?"

"Uh…no," Stan admitted.

The kid took a pointed look at the police tape. "Are you a cop?"

Stan sized up the teen briefly, calculating whether he'd be able to snow him. He rejected the idea; too complicated.

"No," he shrugged.

"This area is off limits to the public…_particularly _that area." He stabbed a finger across the tape, pointing to the part of the corridor that Stan was standing in.

"This is the corridor where the shots were fired on the weekend?"

"Yeah. A guy got killed," the teen said. He gestured toward the stain on the floor. _No shit, Sherlock,_ Stan thought, but he nodded soberly. He was gambling that the kid wouldn't be able to resist showing that he was in the know about the incident. If Stan acted dutifully impressed, he might get some more information.

"That's terrible. Did they catch the guy who did it?"

"No." The teen watched carefully as Stan ran a hand across the wall where some damage was showing. "Shots fired right there," he said authoritatively.

Stan, his back turned toward the kid, gritted his teeth. _I don't think so, _he seethed inwardly. It looked to him like there wasn't much gunfire damage to the walls. Most of the bullets must have hit their mark. But he turned to the kid, wide eyed.

"Right there?"

The teen nodded with an insider's certainty. _You weren't even here that day, were you? _Stan smirked to himself. Still, he looked back at the damage in the brick wall with awe. Then he turned toward the kid.

"Are there any security cameras operating in this corridor?"

The teen looked at him dubiously. "Why? You casing the place?"

Stan was lost for words momentarily. The kid continued to stare at him, all curiosity. Then he broke into guffaws of laughter.

"I'm just kiddin' ya, man!" He was delighted by his own joke. Stan smiled stiffly and bit his tongue.

"Yeah, good one," he replied dryly.

"See there?" The teen pointed to an upper corner of the ceiling. He turned and pointed to another spot. "And there." The cameras were reasonably well hidden, but if someone was looking for them, they'd spot them easily.

"Do all of these back corridors have cameras?" he asked.

"Oh, no," the kid laughed, as if it was a preposterous idea. When Stan fixed him with an expectant look, he continued: "The staffs of a lot of the stores on this level take their nightly bank deposit down this hallway."

Stan nodded his understanding, while thinking: _Considering everything you've told me, you're lucky I'm **not **casing the place. _Out loud he said, "Would you have the security tape from that day available?"

The teen shook his head. "No, the police took it." After a long and thoughtful pause, he added, "Not right away, though. They didn't take it until they were done with their investigation here."

"They're through with their investigation?"

"Yeah."

Stan glanced at the yellow crime scene tape. "Why is the corridor still roped off?"

The teen made a vague gesture down the corridor, pointing with the mop handle. Stan turned to look and realized the kid was indicating the corridor walls, one crumbling and the other with a gaping hole in it.

"It's considered hazardous," he said.

"Oh, right," Stan replied. He wandered down the corridor to have a closer look at the "hazard". The combatants had done a real number on these walls. But not with gunfire. The brick had given way from the force and weight of something very heavy. _Like a Terminator, maybe? _he wondered. As he examined the area, he tried to decide on his next move. He thought it was no accident that the kid had mentioned that the police hadn't taken the security camera tape right away. It was possible that he was being invited to bargain.

He looked back down the corridor. The kid was pretending to mop, while keeping an eye on Stan. Stan headed back toward him, and asked, "Did you happen to see the security tape before the police took it?"

"Yeah, I saw some of it." He continued to push the mop around, offering nothing more. Stan wanted to give him a hard shake, but he knew he had to contain his impatience.

"Did you see anything…_unusual _on it?"

The teen looked up. "You mean besides a cop and another guy firing away at each other, bullets flying everywhere, another guy getting caught in the crossfire, and even a _kid _wandering into it all? More unusual than that?"

He smirked. Stan took the point. "Yeah, okay, forget it."

The teen looked a bit alarmed. "Hey, I didn't say there _wasn't _anything more unusual on the tape…" He trailed off, pushing the mop half-heartedly a few times.

"If there is, I'd sure like to hear about it."

The kid stopped mopping, placed his palm over the top knob of the mop handle, and rested his chin on the back of his hand. He studied Stan intently, as if he were trying to figure him out. Then suddenly – and unexpectedly – recognition dawned in his eyes.

"You're that director guy."

Stan blinked. He hadn't expected to be recognized as he skulked around back hallways. It caught him by surprise.

"Stan Morsky, right?" The kid was grinning now.

"Uh…yeah," Stan admitted.

The teen made a wide, sweeping gesture toward the corridor. "You're going to make a movie about all of this, aren't you?" he enthused, looking pleased and proud that he had figured it all out. Stan decided he could run with the idea for now, if it might help.

"Well…maybe," he hedged. He offered the mopper a conspiratorial wink, and placed a finger over his mouth in a "shhh" gesture.

"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Morsky," the kid assured him. "I won't tell anybody."

Now Stan targeted the teen's eagerness to feel like an insider.

"It's Stan," he replied, affably. "And you're…?"

"Jeff." The teen stuck out his hand. "Jeff Perry."

Stan gave his hand a firm shake. "Nice to meet you. You know, Jeff, it would really help if you could tell me about what you saw on that tape. It would make you kind of an unofficial consultant for the film."

The kid beamed; he had a title, even if it was unofficial. But Stan also picked up on the look of uncertainty in his eyes. Maybe he had been warned to not talk about it. Jeff took a quick look down each of the three corridors that led away from the intersection they were standing in. All was quiet.

"Come with me," he said.

He led Stan down one of the corridors, through a door, and up a flight of stairs. On Level 4, he turned off of a main corridor and went down a narrow hallway. The room at the end of the hall was a cozy lunch room for the maintenance and cleaning staff. At the moment, it was unoccupied. The near side of the room was filled by a table and chairs set, a refrigerator, and a microwave oven. The other side of the room held the amusement amenities. In one corner was a table with a portable stereo on it; a pile of magazines were stacked beside it. In the other corner was -- Stan's breath caught in his throat for a moment, and his hope soared. Could he get that lucky? Tucked neatly into the corner was a TV, complete with a VCR.

Jeff was rummaging around in a small closet area. Stan fidgeted, but forced himself to wait patiently. Sure enough, when Jeff emerged he was clutching a video tape.

"This is what you want to see," he told Stan. The impressed look that was now showing on Stan's face was thoroughly genuine. Jeff looked pleased; he obviously felt important. "After watching the tapes, some of us thought maybe we should make a copy of the important parts before the police took the originals. I mean, there was a cop involved in the shootings. The police might just conveniently lose the tapes, you know?"

The paranoid nature of his comment didn't faze Stan. Paranoia had become a way of life for him over the past few months, ever since he had received the video and the computer disk from Alex. Paranoia about what Cyberdyne was up to. Paranoia about whether the Cyberdyne owner knew about the evidence he held. Paranoia about –

"They knew it was coming, you know."

Having briefly lost his focus, Stan returned his thoughts to the immediate moment. "Who knew what was coming?" he asked.

"The cop and the other guy. They knew ahead of time that there was going to be a gunfight. They were both wearing vests."

Stan paused and tried to conjure up a picture in his mind's eye of the police officer, looking as he had the day he had seen him in the parking garage. The man was as thin as a whip; there had been no sign of a bulky bulletproof vest concealed beneath his shirt. Jeff interpreted his silence as disbelief.

"Well, they _had _to be. With the number of shots they both took, _nobody _could walk away from that unless they were wearing a vest."

_Or unless they weren't human, _Stan thought, grimly. _Mix **that **one into your paranoia stew, kid. _

"I _know _the cop had one on," Jeff insisted. He was wearing some kind of super high-tech vest. It kind of…" He made a futile gesture with his hands. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like it _absorbs _the bullet, or something. Well, you'll see. It has to be something totally new and cutting edge."

Stan was itching to get at the video; he couldn't stay patient much longer. He wished the kid would hand it over already.

"Yeah, it was some pretty weird stuff," Jeff was saying. Then he suddenly slapped the heel of his palm to his forehead. "Awww, man, I forgot!"

"What?"

"I meant to call my brother yesterday. I wanted to ask him about that. If anybody would know about new defensive equipment – vests, body armour, that kind of thing – he would. My older brother Bill…well, he insists on _William _now," Jeff quipped sarcastically, with an accompanying roll of his eyes. "He's in the military. Kind of the shooting star success story of my family."

Stan stifled a smile. Jeff managed to sound both jealous and admiring at the same time. It sounded like a typical brother relationship.

"Bill knew from Day One that he wanted to be a soldier. He couldn't wait to sign up. He fought in the Gulf almost as soon as he joined up. Well, it seemed that way, anyhow. My folks figure he's destined to go far…and end up as some high ranking officer."

Jeff smiled wanly, and for an instant Stan had a view through the window of his soul. He started to understand why Jeff wanted to feel like an insider on important matters, and why he lit up at the idea of being given a title like "consultant". He pushed a mop at a local shopping mall. In his own eyes, he paled into insignificance when compared to his hot-shot military brother, the Perry family's pride and joy.

"You can't just call him today or tomorrow?" Jeff shook his head.

"Why not?" Stan persisted.

"Because," Jeff replied, "he's, uh, gone far." He let out a hearty laugh at his joke. Then he hastened to explain: "He shipped out today. His unit is being deployed overseas."

Stan didn't ask where or why. He was sure William Perry was probably a real good guy – and oddly, something about his name rang familiar – but he didn't have the time for more chat. Jeff seemed to pick up on that vibe.

"Well, I can't stay," he said, while holding the video out to Stan. At the last moment, he pulled it back again. "I can't let you keep this," he cautioned.

"No, no, that's okay. I won't take it," Stan assured him hurriedly.

"Watch it here, then put it back in the closet. No one should be around here for the next half hour or so, so you shouldn't be disturbed. But if anyone comes in, you didn't get the tape from me."

He was scribbling on a scrap of paper as he spoke. He handed the paper and the video to Stan. "There's my phone number if you need me for any more consultation about the movie," he said hopefully.

Stan looked at him blankly for a beat or two. Movie? Then: "Oh, right! Thanks. If we need any information, I'll give you a call."

He held his breath for the next few crucial seconds, hoping that Jeff wouldn't ask _him _for a business card or a phone number. He had started to like the kid, and he wished him well, but he didn't want to give him an all-access pass to his time. Jeff, however, only jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder.

"I'm going to get back. I hope you see what you're looking for."

Stan extended his hand, and the two of them shook. "Thanks for everything," Stan said. "I really appreciate it." As the kid turned to leave, Stan clapped him on the shoulder firmly. "You're a good man, Jeff."

The teen smiled widely, pleased with the compliment. He raised his hand in a quick wave, then disappeared around the corner. Stan waited for a full minute, just in case Jeff decided to come back for any reason. When he was sure he was alone, he took a deep breath and turned his attention to the black plastic box on the table.

He picked it up and snapped it open. When the catches released, they sounded like gunshots firing…to Stan's ears, anyway. He walked to the door and took a look out into the hallway. Nobody seemed to be around. Still, he figured he'd better get this done as quickly as possible. Pulling the tape from the case, he whispered, "We are go." Then he slid it into the VCR.

The video footage was over almost as soon as it began, clocking in at no more than two or three minutes. But in that short time, it etched vivid and shocking images into his mind's eye, images that would be imprinted there forever. Most importantly, it gave him some answers. Not all of them…but some.

The tape was grainy, and it had been spliced together rather crudely. _But beggars can't be choosers, _Stan reminded himself. He knew that he was lucky to have a chance to see this at all. Alternating shots from both security cameras had been used to reconstruct the entire hallway incident on one tape.

The footage began with a shot of John Connor, taken from behind him. He was racing down the corridor at full speed, ignoring the protests of a maintenance worker that he had nearly barreled into. When he reached the far end of the hall, he burst through a set of double doors. After glancing first to his left – past the Pepsi machine – and then to his right, he froze, his eyes widening. He was definitely seeing something he didn't like. _The cop?_ Stan wondered. _Is this where the cop started to chase him? _

John retreated back the way he had come, frantically twisting the doorknob of a maintenance room. It didn't give an inch. John was already on his way to the next door when his pursuer entered the frame. A massive figure wheeled around the corner, shotgun in hand, and cold, hard assassin's eyes masked by sunglasses. It was the Terminator, the T-800. The fear and panic that was evident on John's face revealed that he recognized it for what it was. Sarah must have taught him how to identify a Terminator. But what to do when confronted with one was something else again.

The machine raised its weapon and pointed it toward the boy. Stan's stomach rolled; he knew exactly what it was like to be in John's shoes. And he had been every bit as rooted to the ground as John appeared to be. Motion at the far end of the corridor then caught his eye. Another figure rounded the corner; this time, it was the cop. A service pistol was clutched in his left hand. Both gunmen converged on John.

The T-800 appeared to say something, after which John immediately ducked toward the ground. The camera frame vibrated violently as the shotgun boomed. The cop was driven back a few steps, but he didn't even get knocked off of his feet. _It must have missed, _Stan thought. How could a Terminator miss from that range?

John was scrambling to his feet again. As the cop raised the pistol calmly, the T-800 took action. One of its huge arms shot out toward John, snaked around his waist, and drew him toward the wall. The machine then used its entire huge frame to shield John from the barrage of gunfire that came from the other end of the hallway. There was no sound on the video, but Stan could see the back of the Terminator's leather jacket being shredded by the flak. And he noticed the drops of blood spraying the wall beside the maintenance room. They were the same blood spots he had examined earlier himself; now he knew who – or rather, what – they came from. He could almost hear the bullets whicking through the air and slamming home.

_It's protecting him, _Stan confirmed, watching in amazed silence. He had already suspected as much, but this video proved it beyond any doubt. Its mission was not to terminate; it was to protect. Specifically, to protect John Connor. It was the Austin imposter who wanted John dead. Stan watched him with the same degree of awe as the man rapid-fired down the corridor, his gun hand as steady as a rock. So perfect was his control that there appeared to be no recoil whatsoever; not a single shot went astray. John was spared solely by other obstacles that found their way between him and the bullets. Obstacles like the Terminator. And obstacles like the maintenance worker. The unfortunate man was sprawled motionless on the concrete floor now, with a red stain spreading out around him.

There was a brief pause in the chaos as the cop changed the clip in his gun. The Terminator used the short respite to slam a forearm against the maintenance room's door. The lock was no match for the force being applied to it, and it gave way immediately. The T-800 thrust John through the doorway and into the darkened room. With John safely out of the line of fire, the Terminator turned to face its adversary. It started to advance down the corridor, walking directly into the onslaught of bullets that poured from the cop's gun. It seemed to be oblivious to them, moving forward continually and patiently waiting for its moment.

Once the cop's second clip was spent, he didn't get a chance to reload again. The Terminator leveled the shotgun at him and fired. Just as before, the force of the blow sent the cop reeling backward. But Stan's amazement grew as he watched the T-800 fire five shots in succession – point blank, and from a closer distance each time – which again failed to take down his opponent. The shots staggered the cop, but he was still standing. And there was no doubting that the shots were finding the mark. With every shot fired, a strange silver coloured splotch burst open on the cop's shirt.

The impact of the sixth shell in a row slamming into his torso finally threw him to the ground. He lay prone and motionless, his eyes glazed and unseeing. The Terminator loomed over him menacingly, and started to reload its shotgun. With the shooting seemingly now over, John – clearly terrified – took the opportunity to steal a quick look out the doorway and down the corridor. Stan noted that only vaguely, because he was preoccupied by something else. He was staring in slack-jawed disbelief at the huge holes that had been blown into the cop's body.

The camera at that end of the corridor had captured the scene clearly. There was no blood, although the wounds went deep. As a matter of fact, there was no sign of _flesh. _There were only gaping, silver lined holes. _Super high tech vest? _Stan thought, doubtfully. It was very unlikely. Peering closely at the screen, he was almost positive he could see a bit of the gray concrete floor through one of those holes. _One of those shots must have gone clean through him, _he marveled, wondering if he could trust his own eyes.

Then he gasped audibly at what happened next. The holes that had been blasted into the cop's stomach and chest began to liquefy and flow. It was as if they had taken on a life of their own. Then they started to shrink and fill in. Finally, they sealed themselves, leaving the cop's torso fully intact.

Stan watched all of this with fascinated horror. He was trying to comprehend what he had seen. One second the cop had had huge holes punched into him, the next second those holes had sealed, leaving no evidence that they had ever been there. His uniform shirt was pristine, not a single rip or tear remained. It could pass for freshly pressed and straight off the hanger. His police badge and name tag, both of which must have been obliterated by the shots, were also fully intact once more. They showed no sign of having been damaged.

_No vest can do **that. **What **is **that thing? _Stan asked himself numbly. He definitely knew what it _wasn't. _Not a cop. Not a "him". Not _human. _With some reluctance, he admitted to himself that he was fully aware of what it was: it was a machine, another Terminator. It was definitely very different from the T-800, but in the end, the job description was the same.

And apparently, it had the same indestructibility. Only moments later, it started to move again. It turned its head forward, so that it was looking up toward the camera, and Stan saw that lucidity had returned to its eyes. Then it peeled its upraised arms off of the floor. Stan flinched as the cop-thing leaped to its feet with the agility of a cat. It was fully "healed". With lightning fast quickness, it reached out and grasped the barrel of the T-800's shotgun. The two machines struggled for possession of the weapon, remaining silent and expressionless as they did so. It was a standoff. _It's met its match, _Stan thought with incredulity, as the T-800 failed to get the upper hand. Despite the considerable difference in size between the two, they seemed to be evenly matched in strength.

Finally, the T-800 managed to slam its adversary against the wall. As the brick crumbled and buckled around the machine's wiry form, Stan realized he was now seeing how the walls in the corridor had taken such damage. Two immovable objects had met two irresistible forces. The cop-thing pushed back, spinning the T-800 around and hurling it into the brick wall. More fragments of brick showered down. Then it gripped the Terminator and hauled its four hundred plus pounds across the corridor and into a fibreboard wall. The wall gave way like it was made of tissue. Both combatants fell through the opening and disappeared from sight. Down the hallway, John could be seen sneaking a look around the corner again. Realizing it was his best chance, he broke from the safe haven of the maintenance room and sprinted toward the stairwell that led to the parking garage. The tape abruptly cut off; there was no more.

_And that's where I came in, _Stan thought. _I'm sitting in the parking garage thinking I'm going to talk to John Connor. _And totally unaware of what had happened in the mall. He shook his head with wonder. He now fully understood the panic that John had shown as he had desperately tried to get his bike started that day. His life had been on the line.

Stan suddenly felt very weary. It never ended, it seemed. Skynet didn't get tired; it was relentless. There _were _two again, just like last time. Skynet had sent another assassin. And as long as Skynet was relentless, the Connors' protectors had to be, as well. But maybe the playing field was a bit more level this time. The protector didn't need food, sleep, didn't feel fear. But some questions remained unanswered. _How a Terminator came to be John's protector, I'll never know, _he sighed to himself.

He rewound the tape. He knew that there had been more to the incident than the cameras had been able to catch. The battle had continued beyond the hole in the wall; the nightly news had told him that much. If there had been sound on the tape, he knew that he would have heard the crash of a storefront window shattering. But he had seen all that he needed to see. And he had the answers he had come looking for.

After watching the video footage several more times, he removed the tape from the VCR. As he placed it back in its case and snapped the lid closed, he was thinking long and hard. There was visual evidence of this new kind of Terminator – of _both _kinds of Terminator – right here in his hand. It was very tempting to take it with him. After all, Jeff didn't know what he had here. He paced the room for a minute or two, holding the video in one hand and tapping it against the palm of the other.

He had given Jeff his word. "Shit!" he muttered, in frustration. Then he walked over to the small closet and placed the video on a shelf inside of it. He turned and walked rapidly from the room, not giving himself an opportunity to change his mind. Given half a chance, he knew that he might. _I should be sprinting for the stairwell, the same way John did, before I get tempted to go back and take that tape._

He didn't relax until he had exited the mall without the video.

ooOOoo

As he drove home, a light rain began to fall, an interruption to the perfect summer day. The car radio provided a distraction for him; he sang along to each song, trying to drown out the buzz of white noise that his thoughts made as his mind tried to process what he had seen on the video. But he didn't want to think about it consciously right now.

He turned into the parking lot of a fast food joint, intending to pick up a snack at the drive-through. As he slowed near the speaker, a small sign came into view: "Place Order At Intercom". Stan stared at the words trance-like for a few seconds; he had no idea why. Intercom…com… Then one voice rose above the ongoing disorganized din of his thoughts, and asserted itself.

"Sergeant, Tech/Com…with the One-Thirty-Second under Perry, from '21 to '27."

It was the voice of Kyle Reese, as heard on the police interrogation video from 1984. The name, rank, and serial number he had given from one sergeant to another. Reese had said those words to Vuckovich, an LAPD sergeant. The second part Reese had said to the infamous Dr. Silberman. Stan knew all of this because the geniuses at Cyberdyne had hacked into the LAPD computer system to obtain a copy of the interrogation video for their own purposes. Alex, in turn, had dutifully included it on the computer disk that he had given to him.

_With the One-Thirty-Second under **Perry**, _Stan repeated to himself. That was it. That was where he had heard the name Perry before in relation to things military. Could it be that Jeff Perry's military brother would be the man who would lead the One-Thirty-Second? The same Perry that Reese would serve under for six years? Of course, there had to be hundreds, maybe thousands, of people in the greater Los Angeles area with the surname Perry. But only a certain number would be connected with the Forces. On the other hand, it was quite possible that the Perry Kyle had served with hadn't been a military man at all prior to Skynet's attack and the subsequent war against the machines.

Still, making the connection had come as a mild shock. If it _was _the same man, and if Jeff ever did show him the video of the corridor shoot-out, then some day William Perry would realize that he had seen two different kinds of Terminators well before the so-called Judgment Day had ever come. Or maybe his familiarity with the tape, and thus with the enemy, had been a key factor in gaining Perry his authority in the forces of the future. By seeing that video, he would have seen more of the corridor shoot-out than even _John _had.

Stan uttered a sharp bark of laughter in response to how bizarre _that _was. It got crazier all the time. He leaned his head out the window for a few seconds, letting the rain drops sting his face. It felt refreshing, and it reminded him that he was still living in a world of relative normalcy. At that moment he became aware of a car horn bleating behind him. A girl's voice was coming through the speaker, sounding distorted and impatient.

" – _please _take your order. Is anybody _there_?" It seemed she had asked a number of times already. In an aside to someone else inside the restaurant, he could hear her say, "Is this thing working?"

He glanced into his rearview mirror and saw a parade of cars backed up behind him.

"Hey, what's the deal, buddy?" one driver yelled. "You feeding an army?"

Stan laid his foot on the gas, and pulled away without ordering. Back on the street and driving toward home, he wondered what the Tech/Com Forces would make of a Whopper. For them, it would probably be a gourmet meal.

His thoughts returned to William Perry. _Door closes, window opens, _he mused. Sarah and John were gone now; he wouldn't be able to talk to them to tell them what he knew. But he now had a new potential contact, one that was already inside the military. He wouldn't contact Perry; he didn't even know if he was the right man. And Perry would think he was crazy if he told him that the cop on that video was a self-regenerating robot that had been sent from the future to assassinate a ten year old boy who would someday be humanity's last, best hope for survival. _Anyone said that to me, **I'd **think they were crazy, _he assured himself. But he'd keep in mind the military man that was "going to go far". He'd file the information…just in case.

ooOOoo

Stan rolled down his car window somewhat reluctantly, grimacing at the blast of hot air that immediately engulfed him. It was an unseasonably warm October day. _Hot as a blast furnace out there, _he groaned to himself. But he made an effort to be pleasant as he addressed the guard in the small kiosk that he'd stopped beside.

"Hi. How are you today?" he greeted him.

"Never better," the guard replied affably. The heat didn't seem to bother him at all. "Yourself?"

"Good. My name's Stan Morsky. I'm here to see Carl Stinnett. He's expecting me."

The guard consulted his clipboard, then nodded his confirmation that Stan's name was on the appointment list. Moments after he stepped back into the kiosk, Stan heard a buzzing sound, and the gate started to lift. The guard emerged from the tiny cubicle again, and pointed to his right.

"Parking on that side of the lot will get you closest to Mr. Stinnett's office."

Stan nodded. "Okay, thanks a lot." He pulled forward into the lot. After closing the driver's side window again, he enjoyed a few deep breaths of canned – but cool – air. It was bad enough that he already felt vaguely grimy about setting up this appointment in the first place, but the addition of today's heavy, humid air left him feeling like he had been dumped into a swamp. But this was no time to be having second thoughts.

It was now more than three months on from the events that had culminated in the destruction of the Cyberdyne Systems building and in Miles Dyson's untimely death. Life had more or less returned to normal, although Stan knew that things would never be truly normal again. Not for him. But the days between had given him plenty of time to think things over. When he had received the unexpected call from Stinnett, a plan had started to form in his mind. He had heard opportunity knocking, and now he was ready to do some bargaining.

After easing the car into a guest parking space, he left the engine idling in order to keep the air running. In front of him stood a non-descript, boxy looking building. He scanned it carefully from one end to the other, then closed his eyes for a minute or two, making his final preparations for the meeting to come.

Stinnett was a pitch man for the newest cable TV station in the Los Angeles area. The station had quickly carved out a niche for itself with a series of exploitative and sensationalistic original movies. But in contrast to this, it had also gained a reputation for airing controversial and hard hitting news documentaries. Whether fact or fiction, if an issue generated controversy, this station was drawn to it. And it often blurred the line between the two.

Stinnett had contacted Stan to try to sell him on the screenplay of one of the station's upcoming movie projects. They were interested in having him direct it. The proposal had caught Stan by surprise, as he had carefully built his reputation and career on big screen feature films. To associate his name with this station, and its often questionable and sleazy product, would be to risk tainting that reputation. For his part, Stinnett knew that the association would give the upstart station instant credibility.

Stan surmised that they were ready to open the coffers a little wider this time, in order to buy that credibility in the person of a known director. But he had a surprise for them; he had an entirely different kind of bartering in mind. He would agree to do their latest smut and violence fiction piece. He wouldn't even insist on full "creative" control. He winced; it pained him to even consider such films as having artistic value. In return for his services, he would request extensive financial backing to be put toward his own personal project, an expose of Cyberdyne Systems. For that project, he would insist on full and unquestioned artistic control. Furthermore, he wanted to secure from the station moguls their full support of – and publicity for – his documentary. He would accept nothing short of a guarantee that it would air on the station in a prime time viewing slot.

He realized that he was gripping the steering wheel tightly in nervous anticipation. Upon opening his eyes, he was confronted with the sight of his white knuckles. Were it not for the steering wheel between his fingers, his hands would be balled into tense fists. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to let go of the wheel. This was it. This was where he could come through for Alex, for Sarah and John…maybe for all of humanity. His best contribution right now would be to get the Cyberdyne documentary made. And he believed that if he played his cards right, he could do that. True, he'd have to compromise himself in order to make the deal, but it was a price he was willing to pay. This documentary could prove to be his most important film legacy.

If he could nail down this deal, he also wouldn't have to take on Cyberdyne alone; he'd have the backing of the station. Still, he knew that it wouldn't be all smooth sailing. The station honchos would want to know every detail about the project, and they would assign station lawyers the task of Teflon coating the film from lawsuits. Stan would have to fight for every inch of content control, and once it was secured, he would have to remain vigilant to ensure that it wasn't eroded out from under him. But, on the positive side, the station was known for fearlessly wading into the fray with its documentaries and investigative journalism. Despite his current jitters, Stan felt confident that he could make this deal happen. He killed the engine and opened the car door. _As long as I don't start ranting about nuclear holocausts and robot assassins from the future, _he reminded himself – not entirely sarcastically – as he stepped out into the oppressive afternoon heat.

Once inside the building, he wasn't kept waiting. A station assistant ushered him through a lushly carpeted outer office and down a hallway. Stinnett was finishing a phone call when they arrived at the open door. He nodded to his assistant and waved Stan into the room.

"I don't care what excuses they're giving. I don't want excuses, I want _results_," he snapped at the person on the other end of the line.

Feeling uncomfortable, Stan took a cursory glance around the office, trying to pretend that he wasn't listening in on someone else's business call.

"This is the _third _time. How many chances do they think they get?"

Stinnett rapped his knuckles on the desk top a couple of times for emphasis. The sound caused Stan to look over toward him. Immediately, he noticed something unusual; none of the phone's lines were lit up. Stifling a smile, he looked away again. The assistant must have somehow signaled that they were on their way to the office. It seemed this was an improvised solo performance, specifically for his benefit. Apparently, Stinnett wanted to impress on him that he had authority here, and that he was a mover and a shaker who got things done. But he was talking to dead air.

"Look," the studio exec growled threateningly, "you tell them that if they miss one more deadline, that's it. It's _over._ And should that time come, I'll deliver the message to them personally." He paused for a few seconds, "listening". "Damn straight they won't miss another one. They'd better not. You be sure to let them know," he finished.

After hanging up the phone, he looked at Stan with an apologetic grin. "Sorry about that," he said.

Stan shrugged; he was still amused by Stinnett's antics. "Perfectly alright," he assured him.

The exec then pasted on his best snake-oil salesman smile. He extended a hand across the desk. "It's a real pleasure to meet you."

Stan shook the man's hand. "Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Stinnett."

Stinnett waved a hand. "No formalities necessary. Call me Carl." He gestured toward a chair. "Have a seat. I shouldn't have left you standing like that. Make yourself comfortable."

Stan settled into a chair that stood in front of Stinnett's desk. He did a quick mental run-through of how he thought things should go. First, they would talk a little shop…just some casual conversation that would allow them to get comfortable with each other. Then they would get down to serious business. He would let Stinnett say his piece – allowing the man to give him the hard sell on his film – without interruption. Then he would agree to take a look at the script of the movie in question; hopefully, he would be able to think of _something _good to say about it. He would express conditional interest, then outline his conditions. And if all went well, he'd strike a deal. With a bit of luck, by the time he walked out of this office, the Cyberdyne expose would be a go.

" – glad that you agreed to meet with me. I've been an admirer of your work for some time."

It took Stan a few seconds to refocus away from his own thoughts, and onto what Stinnett was saying to him. He missed the first part, but he got the general idea.

"Thanks very much," he replied simply.

_Don't let that happen again, _he chided himself. He couldn't afford to give the appearance of not listening closely to Stinnett. Regardless of his own feelings about this station and its cinematic gruel, he had to keep in mind that this project was important to Carl. He had to at least try to _appear _to be interested. If he showed enthusiasm for the station's film project, he stood a much better chance of getting backing for his own.

"You can imagine what it would mean to us to have a director of your stature agree to direct one of our original movies. We'd be honoured."

_You'd be laying it on thick, actually, _Stan laughed to himself.

Stinnett continued: "And believe me, we plan to make it worth your while. But once you get a chance to read this script, I think you'll feel as enthusiastic about this picture as we do. And we think you're the perfect person to direct it."

Stan found the comment to be vaguely disconcerting. He didn't really _want _to be thought of as the "perfect person" to direct any movie on this station.

"So, would you like to have a look?"

Stan feigned enthusiasm. "Absolutely!"

"Great! You won't regret this, Stan." Stinnett pulled out one of the desk drawers and reached into it. Stan grimaced inwardly; he was already regretting it. Becoming involved in this project could cause irreparable damage to his professional reputation. But he reminded himself to keep his eye on the prize. Nothing good came without sacrifice; directing Stinnett's sex-and-scandal piece was simply the price he'd pay to secure backing for the Cyberdyne documentary. Besides, with a little effort he might be able to make it into a half decent cable movie. But having seen some of this station's original movies, that notion strained his belief to the breaking point. _No, I won't, _he admitted to himself.

He looked up to see Stinnett holding the script out to him. A sheaf of innocuous white office paper. But Stan's instinct was to shy from it like it was something diseased. _For the cause, _he told himself, making himself reach out and accept the proffered screenplay. Once it was in his hand, he felt he had crossed a clearly marked line. He had sunk down into the muck with the other smut-meisters. _As if Hollywood needs one more of those, _he thought, miserably. Reluctantly, he looked down at the top page to see what he had been given.

It was far worse than anything he might have expected. He couldn't have even _imagined _this, much less expected it. He stared down at the title page, expressionless, as if unable to comprehend the words. He was certain that the air conditioning must have broken down, because the temperature in the room seemed to have rapidly climbed twenty degrees. He tugged at his collar in a futile attempt to draw some air into his lungs. But there was none to be had.

Stinnett noted the collar tug. "Yeah, it's a hot one today, isn't it?"

"Brutal," Stan croaked in reply, unsure of whether he was referring more to the heat or to the loathsome item in his hand.

"Not a suit and tie day at all," the station exec quipped, with a chuckle. But Stinnett's tie was snug around his neck, and he looked as cool as a snowman. Stan knew that the room's climate hadn't changed; it had changed only within him. His gaze fell to the script's title page once more. Nothing had changed there, either. The stark, black print still boldly proclaimed, NO FATE: The Sarah Connor Story.

Stan knew that the station's movies were often "fact"-based bio-pics that sensationalized recent news stories. But he hadn't seen this coming, and he was at a total loss as to what to do.

"No fate," he read out loud, in a barely audible whisper.

"Yeah," Stinnett jumped in. "That's something she says, you know? Connor, that is. It's kind of a philosophy she lives b—"

"…but what we make for ourselves," Stan muttered under his breath.

Stinnett's eyes lit up. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. "So it looks like you already know her story."

Stan's reply was non-committal. "I followed it in the news a bit back during the summer."

"Good," Stinnett enthused. He obviously saw this as a good sign. "Well, we can supply you with any background information you need."

_Even if you have to make it up yourself, _Stan sighed to himself. There was one thing he had to know. "Why Sarah Connor's story?"

Stinnett enjoyed a hearty laugh. "Are you kidding? Good girl goes bad. Women behind bars. Serial stalkers. Good guys. Bad guys. Blood. Guts. Guns. Sex. Psychosis. Car chases. Explosions!" He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together behind his head, and winked at Stan. "What's not to like? It's got everything!"

Stan shrugged a concession, for Stinnett's sake. "Sex?" he prompted. He wondered if the station exec knew of Kyle Reese's significant connection to this story. But Stinnett misinterpreted his reason for asking, practically giggling with glee in response.

"Yeah, of course, sex. Don't worry, Stan, we'll find some way to work it in. We can add more, if you want. Connor has a ten year old son; she didn't do that alone, did she?"

"I suppose not."

Stinnett leaned forward in his chair now. "My point is that anything you want in the script, we can work it in. We can make _sure _this movie has everything." He waved a hand toward the script. "Go ahead and take a quick look at it."

Stan flipped through the pages, stopping now and again to read a passage. He got the gist of it pretty quickly; it was a character assassination. Sarah was drawn in broad strokes as a psychotic, cold-blooded criminal, fully lacking in any redeeming qualities. As he scanned the pages, he realized that his carefully laid plans had been scuttled. He now found himself in a classic Catch-22 situation. In order to cut a deal that would enable him to make a documentary that exposed Cyberdyne Systems – and to some degree exonerated Sarah Connor – he would first have to direct a movie that would decimate Sarah's character and destroy what little credibility she had. He couldn't win; his clearly marked path had become a house of mirrors.

Stinnett was starting to sense his discomfort. "Is there a problem?"

"No, not at all," Stan assured him.

Ignoring his reply, Stinnett added, "It's okay. I think I know what it is."

Involuntarily, Stan stiffened a bit. What did the station man know about him? Did he know of his own distant connection to Sarah Connor?

"I can't say I blame you," Carl laughed. "You're worried that the movie doesn't paint a very flattering portrait of Connor…and she's not under lock and key right now. She's out there somewhere." He gestured vaguely. "That's it, isn't it? You're worried that if you do this film, she might pay you a visit."

In truth, this hadn't occurred to Stan…at least not yet. The prospect of it was unnerving.

"She's long gone, my friend. You have nothing to worry about. She's in Mexico, maybe even in South America. And she can't come back. Too risky."

Stinnett's reassurances didn't count for much with Stan. He wondered if the man had any idea of how resourceful Sarah Connor was. Probably not. But in any case, it was unlikely that Sarah would come looking for revenge. She didn't waste her energy on anything that didn't further her cause. If it didn't aid in preparing John for his future, or in stopping Judgment Day, she didn't do it. She was too focused to give in to the temptation of luxuries such as revenge. He hoped. He riffled the script pages idly.

Stinnett stood up from behind his desk. "Tell you what," he offered. "I'm going to go make a few phone calls, and give you some time to look over the script more thoroughly. Then we can talk about it. What do you say, do you have the time?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah, sure." He had to admit to himself that he was curious enough to want to take a closer look.

"Okay, I'll be back. Say fifteen, twenty minutes."

Stinnett departed, leaving Stan alone with Sarah Connor's life story…or something that very loosely resembled it. He knew that looking over the screenplay some more wasn't likely to change his mind, but he wanted to know if there was _anything _in here that came within hollering distance of the truth. The chances of that were slim. Sarah's war had started years ago, and as the old saying went, the first casualty of war is truth. Cyberdyne's executives hadn't told the truth about her. Silberman hadn't told the truth about her. It was very unlikely that Stinnett's script writing hacks – whoever they were – would change that pattern. There were probably very few people who even knew the absolute truth about Sarah Connor. He checked his watch, then got down to some serious reading.

Twenty minutes later, Stinnett breezed back into the room. "Okay," he quipped, brightly, "what's the verdict?"

_Guilty of first degree slander, _Stan fumed to himself. Reading more in-depth into this hatchet job of a script had only left an even more sour taste in his mouth. Those feelings must have been outwardly evident. Carl's smile faltered. It seemed that he had been sure that once Stan read more of the script, he would see the brilliance of it.

"There isn't a problem still, is there?"

Stan's hesitation – briefly glancing down at the script – gave Stinnett a chance to jump in again. He went into sales pitch mode.

"Hey, we can work with it. I told you we can make some changes, if you want to. You just let me know where the sticky spots are, and we'll smooth them right out. What is it that's troubling you?"

Stan dove in. "Well," he began, "it's not exactly a very…_balanced _view."

Carl blinked. "Balanced?" he repeated, as if hearing the word for the first time. He looked thoughtful as he walked behind his desk and settled into his office chair. When he spoke again, his tone – at first quiet and reasonable – quickly escalated in volume and force. He leaned forward over the desk.

"Well, maybe that's because Sarah _Connor _is not…exactly…_very…**balanced**!"_ He heaved his weight against the chair's backrest again, glaring at Stan, one hand gripping the arm rest tightly.

Stan was taken aback at the sudden outburst. He knew this meeting wasn't going quite as Stinnett had hoped or envisioned, but he hadn't anticipated hostility. At this point, he just wanted to find a way to get out of here.

The storm that raged across Stinnett's features dissipated every bit as suddenly as it had appeared. He relaxed and raised his hands. "Oh, hey, I'm sorry. I was way out of line. I apologize."

Stan had no idea what to say. "Yeah. Okay," he replied. Useless, but it would suffice. Carl fixed him with an earnest look.

"No excuse for it, I know," he admitted, "but you can see how passionate I am about this project. It means a lot to me."

What Stan could see was that Stinnett himself was perhaps a little unbalanced. If he had a tendency to become that volatile when he didn't get his way, he wouldn't be pleasant to work with. Far from sounding sincere, the apology and explanation seemed to be a calculated ploy to keep him here longer.

Stan proceeded with caution, tapping a finger on the script. "It's just that it gives an _entirely _negative view of Sarah. It makes her out to be totally crazy—"

"She _is _crazy!" Stinnett interjected.

"—without making any effort to understand _why._"

"Why? Who cares why?"

"The story of someone's life should at least attempt to understand what made them who they are, shouldn't it?"

"It's a movie, Stan. We've got to keep the pace quick," Stinnett countered, snapping his fingers a few times.

"Well, you've certainly succeeded there," Stan conceded. "You show her flying into rages, attacking people, taking hostages, shooting at people in their own homes, planting explosives in –"

"Because all of those things _happened._"

"Right," Stan agreed, his voice low and steady. "But why? Why did she do all those things?"

Stinnett threw his hands up in exasperation. "Why?" He steepled his fingers together and gazed up at the ceiling, as if thinking hard. "Why…why…" Then he looked at Stan again. "I really don't know why. Maybe she doesn't like Mondays?" he deadpanned. Then he rapped his knuckles against the side of his head. "She's not all there, you know? There _is _no explanation for the things she does."

Stan decided that it was time to spell it out to him. "There's very little focus on what happened to her ten years ago. But surely it affected her and played a part in making her become the person she is. You didn't explore that at all."

Understanding dawned in Stinnett's eyes. "Ohhhh, is _that _what this is all about? Ten years ago." He shook a finger at Stan good-naturedly. "You _have _done your homework. You know more than you're letting on."

Stan shrugged. "It was all over the news back then."

"Yes, it was. But you know, Stan, the movies we make deal with topical issues and news stories. So we didn't dwell on ten years ago. We decided to keep the focus on the events that occurred this year."

He paused for a moment, then leaned toward Stan slightly. "But you know what I think?" he asked in a low, conspiratorial tone. Stan dutifully shook his head, and allowed Carl to continue.

"I think what Sarah Connor had – at first, anyhow – was a whopping case of Stockholm Syndrome. The guy she was on the run with – not the big guy, but the other guy from ten years ago – they say he was a total loon. But somehow, he made Connor buy into his delusions. I don't know how he did it; maybe it was some kind of hypnosis technique. But she started to sympathize with him, and she began to believe all the crazy things he was telling her. And she ended up even nuttier than he was."

Stan smiled wryly. "There you go."

Stinnett looked puzzled, so Stan explained: "Like I said before, there had to be reasons why Sarah became the way she is now. You said you didn't know why, but you _might _have just described one of the reasons. Doesn't that present a more sympathetic view of –"

"I don't _want _her to be sympathetic! It's a movie, it's entertainment. Viewers want someone they can cheer for…or cheer _against._ We're giving them a villain. Better yet, a _female _villain. It's gold!"

He stared at Stan, looking perplexed, as if he couldn't understand why all of this wasn't perfectly obvious to him. But Stan stayed the course.

"Don't you think you owe it to Sarah to put her more recent actions into perspective?"

Stinnett exploded out of his chair and loomed over his desk. "Owe it to Sarah?" he exclaimed, his face growing red. "Owe it to _Sarah! _I don't owe that lunatic _anything," _he bellowed. He turned his verbal assault on Stan now. "I can't believe you're siding with that _maniac! _After the things she did."

He started to pace the office, fuming. "Did you know," he continued, "that Cyberdyne Systems lost its most brilliant researcher in that explosion? That explosion that _she _arranged." He stabbed a finger in the air to punctuate the word "she". "His name was Miles Dyson. He had a wife. He had two _children." _

"I know," Stan said quietly. "I knew Miles."

"Yeah? Well then, you ask his family how 'sympathetic'" – he sneered the word – "a figure _they _think Sarah Connor is. And if you knew Dyson, how can you sit there defending the hellcat that _killed _him!"

Stan looked up sharply. "Sarah didn't kill Miles."

"Of course she did!"

"He died in the explosion."

"The explosion, my ass," Stinnett scoffed. "That was just the official version. He died of gunshot wounds before the explosion ever happened. He was being forced to co-operate with those low-life freaks, but I guess he wasn't working fast enough for their liking. So Sarah Connor _shot _him…point blank." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that. Is she still looking like some sympathetic victim to you?"

Stan was experiencing a surreal sense of time rushing past him, while he remained frozen in the moment that he had just lived, unable to move forward. His plane of existence was like that of a needle on the surface of a vinyl record, caught in a rut and grinding over the same words again and again. _…Connor **shot **him…just like that…**shot **him…point blank…Sarah Connor **shot **him… _He made a concerted effort to break free of the trance-like state.

Reality returned, but Stan's mind was still reacting sluggishly. Part of it was trying to make sense of the shocking revelation; another part of it was rejecting the idea outright. The warfare in his head left him unable to say a word. He sat speechless for what seemed like an eternity. Stinnett was giving him all the time he needed; he wore a satisfied look, pleased that he had finally struck a nerve.

Stan could feel the room heating up again. _No, _he reminded himself, _it's just me. _He ran a hand through his hair, noting that the ends were damp where they rested against his neck. He was aware of the clamminess of his skin back there…and just about everywhere else. Finally, he looked up at Stinnett.

"I didn't hear – or read – _anything _like that. Not back when all of that happened, and at no time since then."

"I'm not surprised," Stinnett said, casually. "There was a lot that went on at Cyberdyne that night that was never publicly reported. But our, uh, researchers found out."

"There was no _trial _for anything like that," Stan countered insistently, his sense of desperation rising. This couldn't be true. Try as he might, he couldn't picture Sarah pointing a gun at someone and actually firing it. _But that was **your **Sarah, _his inner demons taunted him. _Sarah is someone very different now. _

"You do know that she shot at Dyson in his home, right? The place was trashed."

Stan nodded numbly. "That was in the news."

"Right. So if she would shoot at him there, why _wouldn't _she shoot him after he had gotten her into Cyberdyne, and she didn't need him anymore?"

Stan – slumped in his chair – didn't answer. He didn't _have _an answer. He pointed to the script. "Is that in here?" he asked weakly.

"The shooting?"

"Yeah."

"No, it isn't."

"Why did you leave it out?" Having committed a murder seemed to be an odd detail to leave _out _of someone's life story.

"For the same reason that there was never a trial. There wasn't enough evidence."

"Then how do you know it happened?" Stan persisted.

"Eyewitness statements." Stinnett launched into a full explanation. "You see, Stan, Sarah Connor wanted Miles Dyson dead, above all else. The reasons for that are likely detailed in her psychiatric records. Of course, those are confidential, so we'll probably never know exactly why she did it."

"When the police stormed the lab at Cyberdyne that night, the explosives were already set. Connor could see that the jig was up, so she took care of her only remaining piece of business. She emptied her gun into Miles Dyson. Some of the cops saw her do it. Then she managed to get away because that mountain of a guy literally broke down a wall for her. And they set the explosives off by remote."

Stinnett let Stan absorb that for a minute. Then, in a softer tone, he concluded: "That's why we can't depict her as a sympathetic figure in the film, Stan. We have to show her for what she is."

Stan reached out slowly and set the script on Stinnett's desk. It felt good to have it out of his hand. But it was the _only _thing that felt good right now. He was mired in misery, brooding over these shocking new details. Stinnett – his hands thrust deep in his pockets – gazed out the window at nothing for a minute or two, giving Stan some time to gather himself. Then he moved behind his desk again, and sat down.

"I didn't know that you had known Miles," he said regretfully. "This is a terrible way for you to find out that your friend was shot down in cold—"

He fell silent suddenly, a curious look crossing his face. "Oh, hell," he breathed softly. "I thought all along that your reaction was because of what you were hearing about Miles. But then it just occurred to me…" He hesitated momentarily, then continued: "Did you know…Sarah _Connor_? I mean, at any time…maybe before she was, uh, like _this_?" He waved a hand toward the script.

He said the words as if he thought the odds of Stan ever having known Sarah were comparable to those of winning the state lottery. Stan was mentally backtracking through their conversation, trying to figure out what would have made Carl think he had ever known Sarah. He met Stinnett's stare head-on.

"No," he lied. "No, I've never known her. I've only heard about her on the news."

"The news, right," Carl echoed. He was looking thoughtful again, and Stan sensed that he wasn't off the hook quite yet. "It's just that I suddenly realized that you always call her by her first name only. Like there's a familiarity there."

Stan was convinced that at this moment he must look like the proverbial deer in the headlights. He had absolutely no idea how to reply to that.

"Really?" he asked, trying to sound surprised. He shrugged, and chuckled nervously. "I hadn't noticed."

Stinnett seemed prepared to let it go. He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled heavily. "Well," he said, "I think this meeting has probably been pretty hard on you. I don't think we should rush into any decisions about the movie. You need some time to get used to what you've been told today. There were significant details you didn't know about, and it'll take some time to come to terms with them."

Stan knew that he didn't want to have anything to do with Stinnett's film. And he was sure that he would _never _come to terms with the revelations made in this office today.

"Take the script with you," Stinnett suggested. "When you're ready, you can give it a good, thorough read. And once you read it with the knowledge of what you've learned today, I think you'll see it in a very different light. You'll understand that we've told the story in as balanced a way as possible. But the truth can be harsh."

He lifted the script and held it out toward Stan. Every fibre of Stan's being wanted to refuse it. He recognized, though, that Stinnett was wrapping up this meeting, and providing him with an escape route. That was all that mattered to Stan right now; he'd figure out the rest later. Retreat and regroup. He accepted the script from Stinnett, who, in return, smiled with satisfaction.

The station pitch man stood up and walked from behind his desk toward the door. The meeting was over. Stan rose, feeling the weight of the script in his hand, and joined Stinnett at the office door.

"We can get together in a few weeks and talk about this again," Stinnett offered.

"Okay," Stan agreed.

"Then we can start making any small adjustments that you think should be made." Stan noted that Stinnett assumed he already knew what Stan's decision would be. He let it pass. The two men exchanged some pleasantries, shook hands, and parted.

As Stan stepped through the door into the hallway, he was conscious of a palpable feeling of relief spreading through him. He couldn't get away from there fast enough. He glanced down at the script. Sarah Connor's life was quite literally in his hands; it felt like a heavy burden.

As he walked down the hallway, he tried to figure out how things had gone so wrong. He had laid out his plans so carefully, and now they were dust. In regard to the Cyberdyne documentary, he was back to Square One. All that was left for him to do now was to invent an excuse for being unable to direct Stinnett's movie. Hopefully, he could disentangle himself from this whole mess.

He was approaching the reception area now. Unable to resist, he gave the script another brief look of distaste, as if it were some unwanted flea-ridden mongrel, tagging along with him and begging to be loved. But something stopped him in his tracks this time. For a full minute he stood motionless, with the script clutched in both hands before him, staring down at its outwardly innocuous title page. Something within him was taking a stand.

_No, _he told himself firmly. _No excuses. Tell him you're not going to do it. _He cast a look back down the hallway. _And tell him now. _

Unfortunately, the courageous words didn't translate as readily to his feelings; he dreaded going back there. But it was best to get this over with now. Reluctantly, he retraced his steps back down the hallway until he stood once more in front of Stinnett's office door. The door was a few inches ajar. Stan listened closely for a few seconds; he didn't want to interrupt if Stinnett had already moved on to other business. Finally, with some trepidation, he raised his hand to knock…hesitated…lowered it again. How was he going to tell him? He glanced longingly down the hallway, wishing he could just leave. The exit seemed impossibly out of reach.

He could hear faint sounds on the other side of the door, as Stinnett moved about his office. It was a steady, measured sound; he was pacing. _Now, _Stan ordered himself. He steeled himself and raised his hand to knock on the door. As he did so, he heard the sound of an intercom button being punched sharply. It was followed by Stinnett's voice, now sounding tense and agitated.

"Get me Greg Simmons," he snapped.

"Yes, Mr. Stinnett," a secretary responded.

At the sound of Stinnett's voice, Stan had fought to stop the momentum of his swinging hand, desperately trying to hold up before it hit the door. After managing to still his balled fist less than an inch from impact, he breathed a small sigh of relief. But his adrenalin was surging. Simmons! Why did Stinnett want to talk to Cyberdyne's owner? The connection clicked immediately. It was the damn movie; Simmons was probably acting as a consultant. If he was providing information about Sarah Connor, it was little wonder the film was presenting her as a lunatic.

A woman's voice came from within the room: "Mr. Simmons for you on three."

Stinnett didn't bother to thank her. Stan could hear him scrambling the phone receiver from its cradle, then punching a couple of buttons.

"Greg?" he greeted the other man, concern and urgency in his tone.

Stan had barely noticed that he had almost stopped breathing in his effort to be as quiet as possible. But he drew a breath in surprise, as he now heard the voice of Cyberdyne's owner every bit as clearly as he could hear Stinnett's. The phone had been put on its "speaker" setting. Perhaps Stinnett had done that so that he could continue his nervous pacing.

The other man's voice dripped acid as he addressed the TV station pitch man. "Stinnett, you don't call me," he said steadily, "I call you. You don't ever, _ever _summon me to the phone, and then leave me waiting on the line. Have you got that?"

There was an implied threat in his tone. It chilled Stan, but Stinnett seemed too distracted to notice.

"Yeah, Greg. Yeah, I've got it," he babbled.

A silent moment drew out for far too long.

"Well?" Simmons demanded finally. "Did you meet with him?"

"Yes. He…just left." Stinnett hesitated again, offering nothing more. Simmons' patience reached its limit.

"_And? _Look, Carl, I'm a busy man. You called me, so I assume you have something to tell me. What did he _say_?"

Stinnett sounded like he dreaded saying the words. "He, uh, he's not exactly on board."

A sense of menace pervaded the ensuing silence. Stan heard Stinnett resume his pacing.

"Then what is he – exactly?"

"Undecided."

"Undecided," Simmons echoed. "Undecided. Carl, what was the last thing I said to you the last time we talked?"

Stinnett drew a deep breath, and answered in a voice that was starting to sound decidedly shaky. "You told me to not let him out of my office until he had agreed to direct the film. You said you wanted his signature on a contract."

"Right. And yet he's 'undecided'. I ask you to do one thing – _one thing _– and you can't even manage that!"

"It's not that easy," Carl protested, sounding a bit petulant. "We knew that he'd probably say no, and that we'd have to talk him into it. At least he's still considering it. I tried everything I could think of to get him to see it our way."

"What did he say about Connor?"

"He lied, of course. Said he had never known her."

"Did he read any of the script?"

"I gave him plenty of time to look through it," Stinnett assured him. "But I have a feeling he can't be bought, no matter how much we offer him. He just didn't like the way Connor was portrayed in the script. He said there was no balance."

"That was the whole point," Simmons growled. "Discredit Sarah Connor, and use Morsky to do it. That would effectively neutralize both of them."

Stan took an involuntary step back from the door, feeling a strong urge to bolt. _Neutralize? _Quietly, he stepped toward the door again, straining to hear over the thudding of his own pulse in his ears.

"He hasn't said definitely 'no' yet," Stinnett offered hopefully.

Simmons sounded curious now. "Why is that, Carl? Why do you think he's still considering it? You must have made a pretty convincing case."

Stinnett tried to sound casual. "I just think he started to have second thoughts about Sarah Connor." He cleared his throat nervously. "After I told him that she shot and killed Miles Dyson even though he was co-op—"

"_What_!" Simmons' voice, exploding through the speaker, caused the sound to distort. "What the hell are you talking about? The _S.W.A.T. _team shot Dyson!"

"I…know…that," Stinnett hissed through clenched teeth, biting off each word individually. "But _he _doesn't. And I was desperate. I had to think of some way to try to get him to see Connor the way we do."

"There is no 'we', Carl. You work _for _me. And you're being compensated generously for it. But I might have to rethink that."

Stinnett sounded both wounded and defensive as he concluded: "I had to get…creative, shall we say. Shall _I _say," he corrected himself quickly, mindful of Simmons' last comment. "So I told him that she shot Dyson, hoping it would change his view of her…turn him against her."

Stan heard the Cyberdyne owner heave a sigh. "That was the only thing she _didn't _do." He started to mutter under his breath, and Stan leaned as close to the door's opening as he dared, in an attempt to make out the words. It sounded like, "She's going down".

Then Simmons' voice burst through the speaker at full volume once more, leaving absolutely no question as to the comment's meaning.

"That brazen bitch," he spit out. "She thinks she can come into _my _building, steal _my _technology, blow up **_my_** lab, and cause the death of **_MY _**top researcher! With no repercussions? She's got another thing –"

Unwisely, Stinnett interrupted the rant. "But Tarissa _did _say that Miles co-operated with them of his own free –"

"_Shut up!" _Simmons sounded positively apoplectic now. This had clearly become a very personal grudge for him; he had a score to settle with Sarah Connor. When he spoke again, he sounded a bit calmer, but his self-control seemed to be tenuous, at best. "Why can't _anybody _do anything right?"

Stinnett was smart enough to know that the question was rhetorical; he remained silent, while Simmons continued.

"If Silberman had just arranged the overdose accident, like I asked him to, none of this would have been necessary at all. And I would be well rid of the waitress from hell. But no; no one can seem to accomplish a single task I've assigned to them. I've never seen such incompetence."

Stinnett continued to hold his peace, but this seemed only to further inflame Simmons. He unleashed his tirade on his hired man.

"And _you, _Carl! I guess I should have known better than to ask for _your _help. I give you one small assignment. Get Morsky's name on a contract. But can you manage that? No! You let him walk away still 'undecided'."

He sneered the final word, showing his contempt for Stinnett's efforts.

"You have no idea what's at stake here. You owe me, Carl. Understand? You _owe _me."

Stinnett apparently understood all too well. His voice had become a dry-mouthed croak.

"What do you want me to do?"

Cyberdyne's head man sounded oddly calm and reasonable for a moment. "I just want you to not screw up again, Carl." Then the menacing undercurrent returned to his tone once more. "And I suggest you put the contingency plan in motion. Immediately."

"Immediately," Stinnett parroted him. "Who should I call fir—"

Stan was suddenly aware of everything around him going into motion. He felt thoroughly disoriented for a few seconds. Then he realized that it was _he _who was in motion, not his surroundings. His feet – at their own behest – had taken it upon themselves to remove him from this place. But he felt no connection to having given them any order to do so. It was as though he were outside of himself, still listening at Stinnett's office door, while watching himself flee down the hallway. He surrendered and let his feet carry him, imposing enough control only to resist the urge to run.

As he passed through the reception area, he dropped the script on to a table covered with magazines. Instantly, he felt an enormous weight lift from him. Later, however, he would curse himself for the impulsive act. Stinnett would be sure to find the script there – or it would be turned over to him – and he would realize that Stan was, in fact, very much 'decided'. For now, though, getting to an exit was his immediate goal.

Finally, he reached an outer door and pushed his way through it, feeling relieved to be out of the building. His lungs contracted reflexively, desperately trying to draw in some fresh oxygen; but quickly he discovered that the heavy, humid air, which an hour ago had felt swamp-like, now seemed to have thickened to the consistency of quicksand. He stumbled in the direction of his car, half expecting a restraining hand to fall on his shoulder at any time. The hand of someone who had been sent by Stinnett to bring him back…so that he could be "neutralized".

Having reached the relative safety of his car, he fumbled the key into the lock, pausing only long enough to turn the air conditioner on high. There was no time to think about what to do; he had to get moving. His hands were wrapped around the steering wheel in a death grip as he cruised slowly toward the kiosk at the gate. He was sure that by now Stinnett would have phoned to the guard and asked him to detain Stan. He faced directly forward, moving only his eyes in order to steal a glance to the side. The guard was standing in the doorway of the kiosk. He stepped down onto the pavement as Stan neared him. Stan was already asking himself if he had the nerve to plow right through the man, when the guard then raised his hand in a friendly good-bye wave. Stan was convinced that he would be unable to separate his own hand from the wheel, but somehow he managed to make it relax its grip. He raised it in what he hoped looked like a casual return wave, continuing to drive as he did so. Once out of the parking lot, he drove slowly down a side street. But as he rounded a corner, leaving the TV station building behind and out of sight, he stepped on the gas. He wanted to put distance between himself and that place as quickly as possible.

The things he had heard at Stinnett's office door had, by turns, both panicked and reassured him. Skynet's existence and subsequent attack might still be two years off, but already there was a war of a different kind being waged. It had been declared by Greg Simmons against Sarah Connor. Cyberdyne's head man had lost the battle in the trenches. Sarah had, in fact, won that battle handily, having left his empire in ashes, then adding insult to injury by pulling a clean escape.

Now Simmons was determined to win the public relations war. He would destroy Sarah with a public smear campaign, carefully crafting words and images that would cast her in the worst possible light. The truth be damned. He would manipulate people into regarding her as Public Enemy #1, making it impossible for her to safely set foot on U.S. soil again. And by keeping the focus on the misdeeds of the "dangerous and demented" Sarah Connor, he would effectively deflect the spotlight away from Cyberdyne's wrongdoings, half-truths, and lies.

Simmons was prepared to use anyone to achieve this objective. Silberman, Stinnett…and himself, among others. He had unwittingly walked into a set-up. It had been Simmons' intention that Stan would be his primary propaganda tool. He had tried to arrange things so that Stan's name would be closely associated with the film that was meant to misrepresent and discredit Sarah. This would leave him in no position to challenge Cyberdyne himself.

Simmons' words had forced him to face a grim reality. _Discredit Sarah Connor. Use Morsky to do it. That effectively neutralizes both of them, _he had said. There had to be a reason why Cyberdyne's owner wanted him contained. The likely explanation was that he knew – maybe had known all along – that he was in possession of damaging information about Cyberdyne Systems.

There had been only one revelation that he could take comfort in: Sarah hadn't killed Miles. Stinnett had only been playing head games with him, trying to make him think that was so. What's more, he now knew that in the end, Miles had co-operated willingly in the destruction of Cyberdyne's data. Something that Sarah had said – or something that had happened – at Dyson's house that night must have convinced him that continuing the research on the neural net processor would be a planetary death sentence.

As he raced toward home, he glanced up at the rearview mirror often. There was no indication yet that he was being followed. But he knew now that he was on Greg Simmons' radar; he suspected that from now on, he would always feel like he was being watched. And Simmons was putting some kind of a backup plan into action. What was that about? He was sure that he wouldn't like it, whatever it was. Simmons' comment about an overdose "accident" revealed that he had been prepared to eliminate Sarah altogether. Who knew what he was capable of or what lengths he would go to, to get what he wanted? Stan didn't want to be the one to find out the hard way.

Still, he questioned whether he should have stayed at the office door and tried to hear more about this plan. There was no point in second guessing himself now, though; it was done. As it was, he had heard far more than he had ever been meant to hear. Never had he felt more relieved to get away from a place, and he was happier still that the safe haven of home was not far away now.

Five minutes later, he was walking through his front doorway. Turning to face the door, he pushed it shut firmly, then closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the smooth wood surface. He had made it. But was he really any safer here? Would every day from now on be spent looking over his shoulder? He would have to give some serious thought to how he should proceed, but for now a cool shower and a change of clothes would do. He'd be able to think more clearly later.

He turned away from the door, shrugging out of his casual suit jacket. As he walked through the living room and toward the hallway, he tossed it toward the chair beside the door. The jacket was already airborne by the time Stan noticed that the chair wasn't there. The garment landed in a fabric heap on the floor. He had been so preoccupied by his thoughts that he hadn't even taken note of his surroundings. He turned slowly to scan the room.

The chair was upended and lying on the other side of the room. Its seat cushion had been slashed open, the stuffing pulled out. The couch and other chairs had been similarly gutted. Framed pictures had been pulled from the walls; they lay in piles of shattered glass. The backing had been stripped from each of them.

"What the hell…?" Stan gasped in disbelief. Standing in the middle of the room, he turned in a slow circle, taking in the full extent of the vandalism. Stunned at what he was seeing in the living room, he reversed his course and moved toward the kitchen. Here the cupboards and cabinets had been fully cleared, their contents strewn about the room. In the hallway, the carpet had been torn from the flooring. A similar scene awaited him in the bedroom. Before checking the rest of the damage, he stepped into the bathroom that was located off the master bedroom. After running the water as cold as he could get it, he splashed it on his face liberally, gasping at the sudden shock of it. But it had the desired effect, breaking him out of his stupour.

He stood with his hands braced on either edge of the sink, highly aware of how unsettled his stomach was feeling. After giving it a few seconds to calm down, he reached for a towel and dried his face. It was of little reassurance that this room had gone relatively unscathed. Only a few things had been cleared from the cupboards. The mirror hadn't been broken. His watch lay on the counter –

His _gold _watch. He had left it there after opting not to wear it to his meeting with Stinnett. And there it lay still. This was no ordinary robbery. He had known that in his gut right from the start, but the proof lay here before him. The intruders had been looking for something specific. _Contingency plan, _a voice seemed to whisper in his head. Simmons' thugs had beaten him to his own house. But did they find…?

For the second time that day, his feet were carrying him at full speed before he was conscious of having told them to do so. He raced back down the hallway, then took the stairs two at a time to the lower level. He was wrestling with mounting panic as he burst into the den, launched himself across the room, and came to a sliding halt in front of a tall wooden cabinet. Under happier circumstances, he might have thrown his arms out to either side and proclaimed himself "safe", but at this moment safe was about the last thing he was feeling.

The bottom of the cabinet stood about eight inches off the floor. A carved decorative edging on the front left about four inches of clearance from the ground. This required Stan to slide his hand under the edging, and then reach upward toward the underside of the cabinet. Unable to see what he was doing, he groped along the under surface of the cabinet, searching for the trigger mechanism that would open the small trap door that was located there. Only one thought filled his mind. _Please let it still be there, please_.But his probing fingers couldn't find the mark.

_No, _he suddenly reminded himself, _it's further back. _He thrust his arm deeper into the blackness. _Over on the right hand si—_

"Agghhhhhh!"

The scream that burst from his lungs was an instant and involuntary response to a current of agony that suddenly spiked up the length of his arm. He yanked his arm out from under the cabinet, his eyes widening in horror at what he saw. Deep furrows had been scored into his flesh all the way up to his elbow. They started to bleed freely, coating his arm in crimson. He gaped uncomprehendingly at the sight.

Instinct then took over, and without rising from a sitting position, he scuttled backwards on hands and feet, away from the cabinet. Once he had gotten some distance away, he collapsed on to the floor. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, and he was starting to shake from the shock of the surprise assault. He clutched his injured arm tightly against himself.

_My God, they booby-trapped it, _he thought incredulously. _Not only did they get to it, but they rigged it with some kind of weapon._

He started to examine the full extent of the injury to his arm, but then promptly froze as a low, unearthly squalling sound started to spill out from under the cabinet. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise, but as he listened to the alien sound, understanding came. Staying at a safe distance, he lowered his head almost to the ground, and peered into the shadows under the cabinet. Two gold discs reflected brightly in the blackness, the wide eyes of a thoroughly terrified Dewey. His ears were laid flat against his head, and his lips were drawn back in a warning hiss that clearly showed that he meant business.

Stan sat up again, relieved to feel his tensed muscles relax just a little. Dewey had done a number on his arm, but at least now he knew he was only dealing with a frightened feline. But he also knew that that in itself could be a formidable force, and he wisely kept his distance. He could sympathize with the animal's plight. Dewey had probably tried to hide – wedging himself under the cabinet – when the intruders had broken in and started to ransack the house. But what Simmons' men were looking for was hidden in the exact spot where the hapless cat had taken refuge. Had they managed to get to the compartment under the cabinet? Or had Dewey successfully driven them off, too, in the same manner he had done with Stan? He could only hope so.

He shifted himself along the floor, back toward the cabinet again. Immediately, the low warning squall resumed, steadily rising in pitch, banshee-like. Stan wasn't about to do anything foolish. He wanted – in the worst way – to check the compartment, but he wasn't going to tangle with a scared cat in order to do it. He had learned his lesson; now he'd be patient.

He spoke soothingly to Dewey, giving him a chance to recognize a familiar and friendly voice. Then he placed his non-bloodied hand flat on the floor just in front of the cabinet. At first, this caused Dewey to redouble his efforts in warning the intruder off – hissing and squalling – but after a minute or two the outburst subsided, and all was silent. Stan remained still, not forcing the issue, but simply waiting.

It took another five minutes. Then Stan sensed movement just beyond the cabinet's decorative edging. A dark coloured nose poked tentatively from the shadows out into the light. One front paw emerged, then another. Moving slowly and tensely, Dewey squeezed the rest of himself from his hiding spot. Stan resisted the urge to reach under the cabinet right away; there were formalities to be taken care of.

Dewey was sniffing the air, still sensing the now-departed intruders. A low, guttural growling from deep in his throat expressed his uncertainty and fear. Stan held a hand out toward him, causing the agitated cat to stiffen and take a startled step backward. Almost immediately, he moved forward again, rubbing his whiskers against Stan's outstretched hand, in a peace gesture. He seemed to be starting to understand that his territory, so abruptly and violently invaded, was now safe again. Stan wished he could feel the same way.

Approaching cautiously, Dewey then inspected the shredded flesh on Stan's arm, recognizing it as his own handiwork. He backed off a step or two, casting a baleful and guilty look up at Stan. Stan reached out and scratched gently behind the cat's ears.

"It's okay, Dew," he said softly. "You were scared. You didn't know it was me."

He examined the wounds in his arm. He'd have to make sure they were well cleaned and disinfected. But first things first. Once more, he slid his arm into the shadows and felt along the underside of the cabinet. Eventually, he located the trigger mechanism. As he applied pressure to it, the compartment's cover clattered to the floor. The items inside had been stored so that they wouldn't fall out if the cover was removed. Stan had to stretch a little further yet to get his hand right into the compartment. With some effort, he managed to do so.

The compartment was empty, its valuable contents gone. Stan ran his hand across the surface and around the full perimeter of the small space, but he knew he would find nothing. The leather strapping which suspended the items, holding them in place when the cover was removed, had been ripped right out; only frayed edges remained. The computer disk – gone. The video of Reese's encounter with the Terminator – gone. Even the small plastic case containing the blood-spattered shards of glass had been taken. He pulled his arm out from under the cabinet, then slumped back against the wall, dazed.

"Neutralized," he said out loud, his tone flat and expressionless. The fur on Dewey's back and neck bristled nervously at the unexpected sound of his voice.

He had been left with nothing. Any evidence of wrong-doing by Cyberdyne Systems, any proof of mission-programmed cyborgs had been effectively eliminated. Simmons had won this battle. Cyberdyne's owner had found out about the information that Alex had entrusted to him. It was possible that he had _always _known. He had simply bided his time, waiting for the right moment to reclaim his property. And that moment was now.

There would be no documentary exposing Cyberdyne's goals and the dangers associated with them, nor would the ruthless manner in which they tried to achieve those goals be brought to light. No source material meant no story. It also meant that if Cyberdyne managed to recover from Sarah's attack, the company would be free to resume its steady march toward the planet's doom. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He drew Dewey into his arms now, stroking the cat's soft fur and speaking soothingly to calm him. He was fully aware that he was seeking comfort and reassurance every bit as much as he was offering it. He sat that way for a very long time, staring at nothing, blood drying on his ruined skin, wondering what he should do now.

And listening as Alex' prophetic words about Cyberdyne Systems rang in his head: _Don't you see? They know everything. And what they don't know they **find out. **_

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xxx (End Chapter 8) xxx


	9. Developments

**Afterimage **

by zerofret

Chapter 9: Developments 

The next awareness that Stan experienced seemed to come very slowly, in fits and starts. In the manner of a deep sea diver, he found himself slowly swimming up from a deeply unconscious state until he finally broke the surface of awareness. Having arrived there, though, he was thoroughly disoriented; he had no idea where he was. He only knew that he wasn't alone. Someone was in the room with him. He could sense that, and accordingly, he chose not to reveal that he was awake. First, he would take stock of his situation.

He was lying down, and under his arms and hands he could feel the cool, fresh fabric of starched sheets. Vaguely medicinal smells hung in the air around him. And from time to time he heard a voice. Still struggling to maintain consciousness, the voice seemed to him to come from far away; he didn't think it was addressing him.

"Paging Dr. Wright," the voice intoned. "Dr. Wright to ICU."

Stan's sluggish mind finally made an identification. He was in a hospital. The other person in the room – whose presence he could still sense – was probably a doctor or a nurse. _Why am I in a hospital? _he wondered. _I don't remember getting – _

Wait. Yes, he did remember getting hurt. He hadn't thought it was that bad, though. He had heard about animal bites and scratches becoming infected and leading to much more complicated and serious illnesses. And Dewey had raked his claws down his arm as if he were plowing a field. Was it possible that the wounds had become infected, leading to fever…maybe even delirium? Serious enough to land him in a hospital? It seemed far-fetched, but stranger things had happened. To Stan, it seemed like strange things had become the norm. He couldn't think of any other explanation as to why he might be here.

But his arm didn't hurt,at least, he suddenly realized. _They must have given me some pretty good drugs, _he mused to himself. That could also account for why it had been such a struggle to get back to wakefulness. Another thought intruded; who had brought him here? Had they found him in his home? Or had he come here himself? He couldn't remember. He knew he'd just have to trust that the pieces would fit together better once he was more alert.

He reached over to explore the dressing on his injured arm, but to his surprise, he discovered there was no bandage there. Puzzled, he ran his hand up and down his forearm, searching for some kind of indications of medical treatment. But there were none. As a matter of fact…

Finally, he opened his eyes to confirm what his sense of touch had already told him. There were no wounds on his arm. No scratches. No gouges. They were gone. Not even scars remained. He stared blankly at his arm, as if it were something that didn't belong to him. Now the obvious question was, just how _long _had he been here? How could those wounds possibly be totally healed? He cast a quick look at his other arm; maybe he was just confused about which one it was. But no, his other arm was fine, too.

Now he was _definitely _confused, and he wanted some answers. He looked up to ask the doctor or nurse what was going on. But his companion in the room was neither a doctor nor a nurse. A man in a suit and tie stood silently at the foot of the bed; it was Carl Stinnett. He slouched casually, hands tucked in his pockets, offering Stan an insincerely pleasant smile.

A brief glance around the room confirmed for Stan that he was indeed in a hospital. A half-drawn curtain served as a partition between his bed and another one. The other bed appeared to be unoccupied, but he could see the shadow of figures moving behind the fabric barrier.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," Stinnett cracked, immediately laughing at his own joke. It seemed an appropriate comment since Stan felt a bit like he _had_ woken up in Oz. He returned his attention to Stinnett, already wishing he had some way of wiping the smirk off his smug face. Permanently.

"Where am I?" he demanded.

Stinnett waved a hand, indicating his general surroundings. "It's a hospital," he replied simply.

"Where? What hospital?"

Stinnett shook his head. "So many questions…" he remarked, in a mildly mocking tone.

Stan persisted. "What am I doing in a hospital? I feel fine."

"Look, just relax. You don't need to know ev—"

"Everything _is _fine, Stan," another voice interrupted, addressing him in a reassuring tone that was every bit as false as Stinnett's smile. The voice's owner stepped out from behind the curtain. It was Peter Silberman, now favouring him with a look that was both patronizing and disdainful. But unlike with Stinnett, Stan figured he might be able to change the doctor's expression somewhat.

"Last time I saw you, doc – on TV, it was – you didn't seem too fine yourself."

Silberman's pinched smile faltered slightly at the mention of the disastrous TV interview; he quickly regained his composure. Ignoring Stan's comment, he added, "In just a little while, everything will be even _better._" His tone sounded like that of an adult promising a child an ice cream cone.

"Great," Stan deadpanned. "What happens in a little while?"

He wasn't sure how much longer he could maintain his own composure. All of this made no sense. As far as he was concerned, the only thing that might happen in a "little while" would be that the drugs would wear off, and when fully awake, he would be much more difficult for them to deal with. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.

"You don't have to do anything at all, Stan. It's all taken care of."

"_What _is all taken care of?" Stan snapped irritably.

Stinnett took a step toward him. "Settle down," he ordered, his voice low but containing the unmistakable hint of a threat. Then he smiled again, falling back on the party line. "Just relax, everything's fine." He looked to Silberman, who nodded in confirmation.

"Fine," he echoed.

Stan had had enough of hearing about how "fine" everything was, when it seemed to him that just the opposite was true. Why was he in a hospital bed? What was wrong with him? How had he lost track of so much time? And where exactly was he? Silberman cut into his thoughts.

"The good news is that there's absolutely nothing wrong with you." He paused momentarily, then continued, "The bad news is that soon…there will be."

"What?" Stan asked, stupidly. His mind still wasn't sharp.

Silberman had adopted an apologetic expression now. "You see, Stan," he explained, "I'm afraid you're going to have to be neutralized."

There was that word again. Simmons' word. The seemingly innocuous double-speak that meant a person should be rendered no threat to Cyberdyne Systems, regardless of what action that required. Silberman was raising a hand from his side, revealing a syringe grasped lightly between two of his fingers. It was filled with a sinister looking blue fluid. Grimly, Stan noted the long needle at its end. He had no idea what the stuff was, but he knew for certain that he didn't want personal experience to be the way he found out.

Silberman was holding the syringe upright so that Stan could get a good look at the unidentified substance that would likely end his days. Of course it would be the end. No syringe, it seemed to him, should be filled with anything _blue_, and anything blue being injected into the human body couldn't be a good thing. That was why he had to move. _Now._ But despite his efforts, his limbs weren't responding; they still felt sluggish and heavy. He was going nowhere; his apparent captors had seen to that.

A tiny drop of the blue liquid had beaded at the tip of the needle, and Stan stared at it – transfixed – as the syringe drew nearer to him. Silberman clearly intended to inject this stuff into his neck, of all places! But he could only wait helplessly for the moment of contact and hope that it wouldn't be _too_ awful.

He heard the sound of yet another person entering the room, sweeping in in a business-like manner. Despite his desire to know who it was, he didn't dare look away from the vile fluid that moved steadily toward him. But an inner voice of desperation pleaded that the new arrival just might be someone who could help. He forced himself to look away, bracing himself for the feeling of the needle piercing his skin.

A doctor had entered the room, white medical coat providing instant identification. But Stan didn't yet know if she was friend or foe. She was turned toward the far wall, studying a medical chart – his own, he presumed – on a clipboard. Realizing the needle had never reached its target, Stan glanced quickly back at Silberman. His hand had fallen back to his side, the syringe held out of sight. Stan hoped the shrink would stick himself accidentally. He was aware, though, that Silberman's actions suggested that this other doctor wasn't a part of their plan. There was still a small ray of hope, then.

"Doctor!" he croaked, his throat impossibly dry. "Help me! These people are trying to poison me!"

This wild claim seemed to make little impression on the doctor; she remained absorbed in the medical chart. Stan was shocked. Surely, she had heard him. He tried again.

"They're going to _kill_ me!" he insisted. "Look…" He tried to gesture toward Silberman, but his arm was dead weight. "He's got a syringe in his hand. I don't know what's in it, but it's some kind of poison. Doc – help me, please!"

He realized with dismay that he simply sounded like he was raving from the effects of the drugs. _I probably sound certifiable,_ he thought, disgustedly. But finally, the doctor acknowledged him. She turned to face him, in so doing revealing a pink waitress uniform under her medical coat. The doctor was…Sarah Connor?! _It better be the drugs, or I'm losing my mind,_ he thought. She flashed a bright, warm smile at him; this was the Sarah he remembered from so long ago. What was she doing here?

"Help you?" she repeated. Then she shook her head, now looking regretful, and patiently explained: "No, I can't help you. There is no fate but what we make for _ourselves._" She shrugged apologetically, then without another word turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Stan gaped, disbelieving. "Wait! You're not going to leave me with them, are you? Come back! Hey!!"

His pleas, however, had no effect. The "doctor" disappeared around the corner, the sound of her footsteps growing ever fainter as she walked down the corridor. He continued to stare at the empty doorway, unwilling to look back at Silberman. He, no doubt, would be wearing a smug smile by now. This had only been a minor disruption to the plan; now things were back on track.

In sinister confirmation of this, another man's voice now came from behind the partition curtain. "Finish it," he commanded.

Silberman and Stinnett both darted nervous glances in that direction. "Yes, Mr. Simmons," Silberman replied quickly. Stan squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, swearing softly under his breath. He should have known Simmons was behind this.

Now there was only one option left open to him: holler for _anyone _to come and help him. He was on the verge of doing so when, as if summoned by his thoughts, a uniformed police officer passed by the open doorway. Stan didn't question his luck, he simply seized the opportunity.

"Officer!" he yelled. "Officer, in here. Please, help me!"

He thought his appeal would go unanswered yet again, but after what seemed an interminable moment, the officer reappeared in the doorway. The serious looking young man stepped into the room. He remained silent, his gaze moving methodically around the room – from item to item, person to person – as if he were trying to store the images in his memory in acute detail. Stan, who had initially heaved an inward sigh of relief at the officer's arrival, now very much regretted his actions. He knew that face. And he didn't have to be able to see the name tag to know that it had the name "Austin" printed on it. He knew he had only made his situation worse.

But before he could even begin to think of what his next desperation-motivated move would be, a thunderous roar suddenly came from the direction of the doorway, behind the cop. It rattled Stan's eardrums, making him wince with discomfort. At the same time, an enormous hole opened up in the officer's mid-section. But there was no blood, no entrails. Of course, he knew there wouldn't be. _Because,_ he thought with drug-addled giddiness, _every wound has a silver lining. Then it liquefies and closes up. _

This was exactly what was starting to happen when a second sharp report left Stan's ears ringing. Now a gaping hole appeared in the officer's head. Through this opening, Stan could see that the "doctor" had returned, this time wielding not a clipboard, but a shotgun. Sarah's pristine medical coat now hung over black and olive coloured camouflage clothing. Her long, straight hair was pulled back, and her eyes looked as steely as the gun she held in her hands.

She fired continuously now, until the force of the shotgun blasts threw the T-1000 to the floor. For the moment, it remained prone and unmoving. She stared at it steadily for a long sixty seconds…ninety…two minutes. Then slowly she raised her head.

Silberman's strained expression reflected his sudden awareness that he now stood directly in Sarah's line of fire. She need only raise one hand to steady the weapon, then pull the trigger, and months of abuse and torment at this man's hands could be instantly wiped out in a single moment of blissful revenge. Stan watched with an almost detached amusement, enjoying watching the doctor squirm. Silberman's jaw slackened, and the colour drained from his face. There was a small, insignificant clatter as the syringe dropped from his hand and fell to the floor.

But Sarah ignored him. Instead, to Stan's horror, she swung the shotgun around so that the barrel was leveled directly at him. In an expressionless monotone, she announced: "You stood me up, you son of a –"

The ensuing roar of the shotgun brought Stan to with a startling suddenness, his head snapping forward and his arms thrown up in front of him. He knew in an instant that he had woken up from a dream, and that he was in the safety of the den in his own home, but still his pulse raced out of control. It would take some time for his wired system to catch up to the realization that none of it had happened. "Ow," he muttered, in a delayed reaction, now reaching a hand back to massage his whip-lashed neck. He had dozed off on the couch. Now he slumped back against the cushions, feeling a tremendous sense of relief.

But unexpectedly, the explosive sounds continued. Several sharp reports cracked in succession, causing him to leap to his feet in alarm. The sounds were coming from outside. But before panic could set in once more, he was able to identify the source of the noise. "Fireworks," he mumbled, feeling silly, and laughing a bit nervously. Just to be sure, though, he went to the living room and looked out the front picture window. Bright, colourful cascades of light were tracing a dazzling display against the night sky.

"Happy New Year," he said quietly, while watching more rockets streak upwards and bloom into light. After a minute or two, he turned away from the sight and made his way back to the den. The VCR clock read 12:06. On the TV screen, a giant crystal ball sank earthward as Times Square revelers cheered. That had been three hours ago, of course. Headline News had been re-showing the scene all night. But now, for better or worse, 1997 had caught up to Los Angeles, as well.

Stan had decided to stay home and make it a quiet night. It seemed like more of a night for sober reflection than for celebration. And he wasn't in much of a mood for partying. He poured himself a small glass of champagne, and settled back onto the couch.

"Happy New Year, Dew," he said, raising his glass in salute. "May it not be our last." Dewey, stretched out along the back of the couch, gazed back serenely, oblivious to the implications of Stan's words. Stan returned his attention to the TV; news footage was being shown of New Year's celebrations taking place around the globe. Everyone looked so happy. But everyone else was fully unaware of what this year might bring.

This thought reminded him of the nightmare he had just woken from. The dreams had started shortly after the incident with Stinnett and the robbery of the Cyberdyne items from his home. They had continued to come – always a variation on the same theme – and for one unbearable six week stretch they had come almost every night. He could now truly sympathize with Sarah in regard to the nuclear nightmares that she was burdened with. If he thought his dreams were bad, and there were times when he felt they would drive him mad, hers were certainly much worse.

His days had been equally stressful, as he had wondered if the Cyberdyne brass had anything more in store for him. Was Greg Simmons satisfied that he had effectively "neutralized" him by robbing him of his hard evidence, or did Cyberdyne's CEO have something far more extreme in mind? He didn't know, so the possibilities had played out in his unconscious mind every night.

At the same time, Stan had found it increasingly harder to get film work. People who had been eager to work with him, and thereby hitch themselves to his rising star, now seemed reticent to talk business with him. Others avoided him entirely. Eventually, he had realized that this was Simmons' solution to the problem he posed for him. Somehow Simmons, likely working through Stinnett, had gotten him blacklisted in the Los Angeles film industry. Despite the difficulties this caused him, it had come as a relief to know that Simmons' plans for him _didn't_ involve an evil-looking blue fluid in a syringe. His own mind had thrown that into the noxious mix of facts and fears that made up his dreams. It was something he had read about in the news. Sarah had used a syringe full of liquid rooter as a weapon – holding it to Silberman's neck and threatening him with it – when she had made her escape from Pescadero. He had wondered if she could have ever made good on that threat. Despite all the terrible things that had been reported about her, he didn't think so.

But even though Simmons hadn't called for anything overly extreme to be done to Stan, he would have known that the actions he _had_ taken would remove him from the picture. By undermining his career, he could be sure that Stan would become preoccupied with little else. He wouldn't have time to be meddling in Cyberdyne's business if he had to worry about how he would make his livelihood. And as Stan had come to realize that this was Simmons' chosen course of action, he had no longer felt in fear for his life. Gradually, he had stopped regarding with suspicion everyone that he encountered; he was no longer looking over his shoulder all the time. As a result, the dreams had come less frequently, and eventually, they had stopped altogether.

But now they were back, having started again in December, almost a full year after they had initially stopped. This wasn't really surprising to him. It made sense that the dreams would make their re-appearance as 1997 approached. All roads led to this year. Everything Sarah had warned of, everything Kyle Reese had told her…the truth of it would be borne out in this calendar year.

ooOOoo

That truth would be inextricably bound to the fate of Cyberdyne Systems. The bombed-out shell of the company's headquarters seemed to be the best predictor of whether or not doom was mere months away. In Stan's opinion, it didn't look good for Cyberdyne, and to him that was good news.

But Cyberdyne staggered on defiantly despite the company's vital losses. Greg Simmons kept up a brave front, insisting that he was confident of the company's ability to recover. After all, his business savvy had had as much to do with Cyberdyne's meteoric rise as had Jack Kroll's scientific genius. Ultimately, though, it became evident that the ship couldn't be righted. Like all shooting stars, Cyberdyne had blazed brightly, but only briefly.

The building was gone. Much of the research was gone. Most importantly, Miles Dyson was gone.

One memorable spring day, the morning paper that Stan retrieved from his front doorstep bore a headline that rang the final death knell. "Cyberdyne Files For Bankruptcy", it read. Stan stared at the headline for a long time, absorbing the full meaning of it. He felt neither happiness nor relief, but only a grim satisfaction. Simmons had finally gotten his. Wherever in this world Sarah was, Stan hoped that she was seeing this same headline. And he hoped that it was giving _her _hope.

It was over for Cyberdyne. But what remained to be seen was whether or not the company's demise would be enough. Would the fall of Cyberdyne Systems prevent the fall of humanity? Would it stop Judgment Day from coming?

ooOOoo

Throughout August, as the fateful day drew nearer, the dreams came to Stan with increasing frequency. The sights and sounds within them were at their most vivid, the details becoming increasingly bizarre. They left him feeling drained, bewildered, and often frightened. Waiting for the end of the month to arrive was like a hell-ish, twisted version of a child eagerly anticipating Christmas. Time was moving far too slowly, and the tension was becoming too much. He had reached the point where he just wanted to have it over with, regardless of what the day brought.

As the month neared its end, Stan pondered whether he should put his affairs in order. But as quickly as the idea came to him, he dismissed it as ludicrous. There wasn't much point to the exercise. Put his affairs in order for whom? Who would be here that he could leave anything to? And presumably, there would be nothing left to leave to anyone, either.

On the night of August 28th, the clock ticked uneventfully past 9:00 p.m. Nothing changed, nothing seemed any different. But it was for Stan. It was now August 29th, 1997 in the United States of America. Judgment Day. The day when everything would end, only to bring a nightmarish beginning to the few souls – not lucky, but damned – who would survive it. Stan hadn't allowed himself to think too much about whether or not he might survive such an event. He hadn't made any special arrangements to _try_ to survive, in the event of disaster; he wasn't sure that he'd want to. He had heard enough about Kyle Reese's world to know that he wasn't too eager to see it for himself.

But now all he could do was sit, wait and think about such things, as the seconds ticked by and the twenty-ninth day of August marched relentlessly westward toward him. Stan was sure that the day ahead would be the longest of his life…that was, if he had a full day remaining.

Midnight came and went. Stan continued to sit quietly for awhile, then rose and went to the door. He stepped out into his front yard – into the air of Judgment Day – and began a slow walk down the street. He felt a heightened awareness of all of the sights, sounds, and smells around him. The city hummed with late night activity. It seemed to Stan like a busy human anthill, its scurrying inhabitants blithely oblivious to the fact that the foot of destiny might crush it at any moment.

The cynical part of himself was wondering if humanity was worth saving at all. This he had spent countless hours mulling over in the days leading up to this one. He felt it wasn't for him to decide such things, but how a machine might come to make the ultimate decision was totally beyond his comprehension. How could something like that be allowed to happen? How could humans be so careless, so…_stupid?!_ That only brought him back to the question of whether or not humanity was worth saving. The subject always led him in circles, never offering up any answers. He stopped now, letting out a heavy sigh. He wished he at least had something to do on this day of interminable waiting, something that would make the time pass more quickly. For now, he could only head back home.

He turned to do just that, and was startled to see a large, dark shadow looming out of the near darkness; it was speeding directly toward him. Someone had moved up behind him without a sound, or perhaps he had been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard anyone's approach. His adrenalin surged and he took an instinctive step backwards, but his reaction came far too late to avoid the oncoming form. The weight of it as it barreled into him nearly sent him sprawling. He had been so busy preparing himself for the end of the world that he had failed to protect himself from a common street assault. He wondered briefly if his assailant was armed; it would be the height of irony if he were to lose his life to a street thug only hours before the missiles that would end it all were launched. But he certainly wasn't armed himself, and didn't know how he would defend himself.

He had had time to raise his arms in a defensive posture and turn partially away from his attacker before contact had been made. He now found himself half bent over, with much of the assailant's weight leaning on his back. He was unsure for a moment whether the heavy panting he could hear was his own or the stranger's. Then he quickly regained his wits, as understanding came to him. As he turned his head to face his adversary, the second wave of attack was launched. A long, pink tongue darted out and slurped up the side of his face. "Ugghhh!" he exclaimed, in mock disgust.

Having gotten himself turned around fully now, he was able to see that his "opponent" was a decidedly happy and overly friendly Newfoundland. The dog was out enjoying a late night walk, just as he was. But now imprisoned between the two solid feet that were planted firmly on his shoulders, Stan knew that he wasn't going anywhere soon. He peered past the dog's head into the darkness, but he couldn't see anyone coming. Moments later, though, he saw movement well down the street on the opposite side. A young man clad in shorts and a tank top, a looped dog leash dangling casually from one hand, was sauntering along the sidewalk. He was only now becoming aware of what was happening up ahead. Stan saw him quicken his pace and raise his fingers to his lips. A whistle pierced the night air.

"Webster, down!" he demanded, in a sharp tone.

Stan looked the beast in the eye and spoke as if trying to reason with it, although he knew that nothing he said would make a difference. "Yeah, down, Webster," he echoed, gesturing across the street to the dog's only recognized voice of authority. The dog dropped its front feet to the ground obediently, if a little reluctantly. Then it dropped its entire body to the ground, rolling with delight on the grass of the nearest lawn, after which it leaped up and raced a few happy circles around Stan. Stan was enjoying the animal's antics; its sense of fun was contagious.

The young man across the street shrugged helplessly. "Sorry 'bout that," he apologized. "Sometimes he just…"

"It's okay," Stan laughed, while once more side-stepping the shaggy black battering ram. The man whistled again and the dog paused momentarily, casting a pleading look in his master's direction. He had found a new playmate, and he didn't want to move on just yet. During the brief respite, the connection clicked home for Stan, making him smile again, despite the grim thoughts both man and dog had interrupted.

"Is his name Webster because of his feet, by any chance?" he asked the man.

The grin that appeared on the younger man's face was part sheepish, part appreciative. "Yeah," he confirmed, adding, "Most people don't pick up on that."

Stan enjoyed a good laugh now, and quipped, "I'll bet he's a great swimmer."

"Of course! The best."

Stan leaned over and ruffled the dog's ears affectionately, speaking quietly to him as he did so. "Well, you hang in there, Webster, okay?" The dog's tail whipped back and forth with delight at the attention he was receiving. "You have no idea how important your kind might be by the end of this day."

He straightened up and gestured across the street again to encourage the dog to head back to his owner. With a parting wave to the other man, he continued on his way back home, thinking that it was fitting that his first encounter on this day had been with a dog. When he stood once more in front of his own house, he was hesitant to go in. Doing nothing but sitting and waiting for what _might_ happen would be unbearable; it wasn't yet 1:30 a.m. But where was there to go? What plans did one make for Doomsday?

Then it suddenly occurred to him exactly where he could go. He reached for his keys, and climbed into his car. It was a fair distance to Edwards Air Force Base, but if he headed that way right now he should still be able to observe while under cover of darkness. He had no idea whatsoever what purpose this would serve, but it gave him something to do. If any kind of an impending threat was known, there might be signs of it out by Edwards.

His efforts, however, weren't rewarded. After getting as close as he could – as close as he dared – to the base, he had watched feeder roads that led into the facility. After observing for a full two hours, he'd had to admit to himself that there was no sign of either increased or unusual activity near the base. Military vehicles came and went periodically, but there appeared to be no sense of urgency in their operations.

He drove home under a spectacular purple-blue dawn sky. The sun was rising on what would surely be a gorgeous late summer day. But would it be the last day of any kind? As he stepped in the door at home, he could hear CNN news still droning on the TV he had left on when he had gone for his walk several hours earlier. He went into the den to have a quick look, but the stories being covered appeared to be the usual. There was certainly nothing that suggested nuclear apocalypse was imminent.

Going to bed now was out of the question; he knew he wouldn't sleep. Some time could be passed in busying himself with mundane household tasks. The hungry cat that was currently staring him down would be a good place to start. As he made for the kitchen, his thoughts had already turned to what he might do next. There was no hope of being able to concentrate on anything, so doing any serious work wasn't an option for today.

In the kitchen, he turned on a radio and fiddled with the dial until he found a news station. This entire day would be spent within hearing range of news reports, so that he would know immediately if there was any breaking story about a missile threat. He had just reached for a can when Dewey made his appearance, slowly plodding into the room. Fourteen now, he was slowing down some. But he still had never been known to refuse a meal, not even this early in the morning, and he dug into this one with gusto.

Stan returned to the den and resumed watching CNN. He wished that he at least knew what time this catastrophic event was to take place. He couldn't imagine that Kyle wouldn't have told Sarah this information. Maybe he hadn't known it himself; in his world, it would have been just so much useless oral history. Or maybe that was one nugget of information that had eluded Cyberdyne's file.

By mid-afternoon, he was gazing into his liquor cabinet with serious intent. It would be so easy to _drink _himself into oblivion so that he would be fully unaware if he were to suddenly get blown there. If he woke up the next day, it would be a pretty good indication that the world was still there. And if he didn't wake up, at least the end would have been quick and painless. _And cowardly,_ he thought miserably, frowning at the bottles.

Or so it seemed to him, because there was one image he couldn't chase from his mind; that of Sarah Connor. Somewhere, Sarah was keeping a lonely vigil of her own throughout this day. She wouldn't be drinking herself into a stupor; she had an obligation to her son. Stan intended to keep that vigil with her for the duration of the day. It was the least he could do. Rather than reaching for one of the bottles, he instead made a pot of strong coffee, hoping it would help to keep him awake.

He rummaged in the front hall closet for a minute or two, then returned to the den. As he watched TV news, he glanced down periodically at the scrap of paper in his hand. It had been the object of the closet search. The edges were frayed and the paper was starting to separate along the fold, but Sarah's address and phone number – written in her own hand – were still clearly visible. It was thirteen years ago that that information had been hastily scribbled down. It seemed like a lifetime ago. And it _was_ a different life now…for both of them. The paper still resided in the old leather jacket he had been wearing back then. He had never been able to bring himself to throw out either one. The paper had last been in his hand in 1988, the night of the Dodgers World Series game. A night when he had been jolted by surprising revelations about Sarah. Clutching the paper that night had given him a stronger sense of her, had made his memories clearer. He remembered having thought that night that it was as if something of her essence was retained in it. Maybe it was just a scrap of paper, but it felt right in his hand, somehow comforting. It served as a simple but powerful reminder that he wasn't in this alone.

By six o'clock his energy was flagging noticeably. He hadn't gone to bed at all last night. Still, he was unwilling to give in to his weariness. There would be no sleep for him until this day was over. He stood up and jogged in place for a minute or two to raise his heart rate and get his circulation going. Then he strode decisively toward the door. It was time to get out of here again; he'd go out for dinner. Getting out into the fresh air would be good for him, and even going for a greasy hamburger would help to pass some of the remaining hours of this cursed day. _And besides,_ he thought sourly, _if this day lives up to its press, it's not like I'm going to ever have to worry about my cholesterol._

Once he was out in public, things seemed to take on a surreal quality. The weather seemed almost too perfect, the people too cheerful, the traffic too orderly. Even the burger didn't seem to be too greasy. He knew that much of it was a product of his over-tired and under-stimulated mind. Maybe he was just idealizing everything that might be gone in a split second. To everyone else, it was likely just another L.A. day.

After his meal, he drove out to the beach. The setting sun was casting a dazzling display of light on the water, and he paused briefly to admire it. Then he walked along the beach in the surf, dusk closing in around him. There were certainly worse ways to spend the possible last day of civilization. He had nearly put this day to bed. On the east coast, the 29th was already over. He knew, though, that he wouldn't relax until every last second of it had passed into history. In truth, he wasn't sure he would relax even then.

By eleven o'clock, he was back at home and in front of his TV once more. This was the final stretch; he was nearly there. As he watched a newscast that seemed to consist of relatively routine stories, his thoughts turned to the very real possibility that nothing unusual would happen in the next fifty minutes. How would that make him feel? He couldn't very well feel cheated that the world as he knew it _hadn't_ ended. But had he simply been taken in by the ravings of a deranged mind in coming to believe all of this? No; he was sure of that. The things he had seen, heard, and experienced himself had convinced him that there was validity to Sarah's claims. And Kyle Reese had told her that the dark future would begin today. Except…

He glanced at the wall clock. 11:45 p.m. Time was running out.

That left him with fifteen minutes to brood over things, and he now found himself thinking about Sarah's successful attack on Cyberdyne two years previous. About Miles Dyson's sacrifice of not only his life's work, but of his life itself. About Cyberdyne's collapse, both literal and financial. Because of their actions there _was_ no Skynet; at least, not that people knew of. By any other name, there were still missile defense systems, and that meant that something could go awry on this day that had been selected by fate. _Or on any other day_, he noted, grimly. But it was starting to seem all but assured that those actions _had_ altered things.

Stan glanced at the clock once more. 11:59 p.m. Seconds later – as the minute hand swept over the apex of the dial, dissolving August 29 into a memory – he sensed a hiccup in the cosmos, a breaking free of chains. _Something_ was different.

"You did it, Sarah," he breathed, shakily. His chest felt alarmingly constricted, so caught up was he in the power of that moment. "You and John and Dyson." After a lengthy pause, he added: "And the machine. You changed it."

Their actions had averted Judgment Day. The world would live on.

ooOOoo

The true sense of wonder he had felt in that instant was still having lingering effects even months later, as Stan bid farewell – with a good deal of relief – to the year 1997. Over the previous few months, it had felt more and more like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. August 29, 1997 had been the looming barrier that he couldn't go around, over, or under. He had had no choice but to pass through it, and having done so successfully he now felt a new lightness of being.

If humanity as a whole had been given a second chance, he had reasoned, perhaps he too would get that second chance, on a more personal level. He had made overtures to a few film industry people, testing the waters to see if he might be able to reignite his stalled career. When a couple of these exploratory contacts had resulted in interest being expressed, he had been both surprised and pleased. It seemed Cyberdyne's bankruptcy had given Greg Simmons more pressing problems to deal with than the ones Stan had presented to him. Or maybe he had simply lost his clout in having the power to blacklist him. Whatever the case, Stan was now in negotiations with a small studio to direct a self-penned screenplay. First, the script had to be green-lighted.

On this crisp but pleasant January day, he was driving toward the moment of truth. He had been able to see that as soon as he had pulled his car into the driveway of his home. A full sized manila envelope was propped up in the mailbox. Due to conflicting schedules, Stan hadn't been able to meet with the studio execs this week. It had been agreed that they would look over the script, and then have it dropped off at Stan's house, with notes included giving their impressions and suggestions. At a later date they would meet with him to discuss it. The studio aide had obviously come around to drop off the script, and had found him not home. Stan was aware of a slight tingling of anticipation as he approached the front porch. Had they liked it? He could only hope so.

His car keys jingled in his nervous hand as he mounted the steps. But as he reached for the envelope, he realized that it wasn't what he thought it was at all. Far from containing a bulky screenplay, the envelope was tissue thin, almost as if it held no contents at all. Slightly disappointed, he drew it from the mailbox and examined it. A self-adhesive label affixed to the front bore his name and address in typed block letters. There was no return address, either on the front or the back. There were also no stamps or cancellation markings. All signs indicated that someone had just dropped it off in person. Slightly unsettled by this, he glanced up from the envelope and took a quick scan of the street, checking for anything unusual or out of place. It was easy to fall back into his old feelings of paranoia. They had been his constant companion during the time Simmons had been targeting him, and he could ease back into those feelings like they were a comfortable pair of slippers.

But his suspicion dropped away as quickly as it had come. He laughed out loud at himself, having solved the "mystery". It _was_ from the studio, of course; it just wasn't the screenplay itself. In all probability, it was a note explaining why there was a delay in returning the script. Or having found him not at home, maybe the aide had left an explanatory note, not wanting to leave the screenplay sitting in the mailbox. If they were taking more time with it, maybe that was a good sign. He reached into the mailbox and pulled out the rest of the mail. As he let himself in the front door, he was still shaking his head in amusement at how quickly his suspicions could be aroused. Once inside, he shuffled quickly through the rest of the mail – "Bills, bill, bills," he drawled softly – before tossing it onto a side table, and heading directly to the kitchen.

"I'm famished, Dew," he announced, happily. "How about you?"

When no grand feline entrance seemed to be forthcoming, he busied himself preparing his own dinner. Once ready, he took it into the den to eat it while watching the evening news. Already comfortably settled in the same room, Dewey raised his head groggily and sniffed the air in Stan's general direction. Apparently rejecting what was on the menu, the striped head slowly sank down onto the couch once again.

"Resume dozing," Stan laughed, through a mouthful of spaghetti.

Half an hour later, he addressed the curled up cat again. "I can see you sure like your comforts. So how about we pay some of those bills out there? His Majesty wouldn't like it too much if the heat got turned off, would he?"

He turned his attention back to the news program he was watching, but after a minute or two of nothing but the two co-anchors bantering and flirting with each other, he decided he'd seen enough. Now _would_ be a good time to get to those bills. He went into his office and turned on the computer, then headed for the front hall where he had left the mail. He hummed tonelessly under his breath as he went, then softly broke into song, the jovial co-anchors still a lingering image in his mind: "I make my living on the evening news, Just give me something, something I can –" He sensed motion to his left as he entered the darkened living room and turned toward it quickly, muscles tensing. The light on his answering machine was blinking steadily on and off. He exhaled, relaxing once more. It really _was_ surprising – irrational, really – how quickly he could fall back into his old paranoid ways. The machine's read-out was indicating one message; he punched the button.

"Stan, hey, it's Patrick at the studio. We didn't get the script back to you today. If you're listening to this, I guess you know that by now." He laughed. "Uh, Ray got held up in traffic, so we didn't get through all of the rest of it today. We're liking what we're seeing, though, and we'd like to hang onto the screenplay for an extra few days before we meet with you. Hope that's not a problem. I'll be in touch. 'Bye." The machine clicked off and a mechanical voice announced, "Three twenty-one a.m.".

Stan chuckled. _No, I don't think Pat called me at twenty after three in the morning._ The time never seemed to be set right on the machine. "Damn machines," he quipped cheekily toward the non-descript looking box. "I still don't trust you guys." But the message had elevated his good mood even more.

"They like what they're seeing," he announced to the empty room. Then he tried it on for size again: "They liiiiike it!" He had a feeling this deal was going to work out very well. For _both_ sides. He picked up his impromptu singing performance from where he had left off, as he returned to the interrupted task of getting the mail.

"We've got the bubble-headed bleach blonde who comes on at five…"

It wasn't until he was scooping up the pile of letters that he realized he had forgotten all about the large manila envelope. He had thought it would be a notice from the studio, but having heard the phone message, he knew now that it wasn't. It had become something of a mystery again.

He wandered back down the hall to his office. Passing the den, he could hear the news anchors still kibitzing. "She can tell you 'bout the plane crash with a gleam in her eye," he sang. Before sitting down at his desk, he reached into his pocket and brought out a small jackknife. Once seated, he drew the manila envelope toward him and started to slit it open down one side.

"…it's interesting when people die, give us dir- ow!!" He pulled back his hand sharply, having nicked it with the jackknife blade. He gave the hand a few firm shakes, wondering why people did that with a hurt hand. It didn't really make it feel better. A Kleenex served to both soak up the bit of blood on his finger and to wipe the few red drops off of the knife blade. He snapped the knife shut and tore the envelope open the rest of the way.

Parting the sides, he peered inside. There seemed to be only one sheet of paper in there. Such a big envelope for one little piece of paper. "Halloooo," he called down into the practically empty envelope, then cocked his ear toward it as if listening for an echo. He was being rather silly, he knew, but nothing could spoil his good mood today; not annoying news anchors, not cut fingers, nothing. Finally, he reached into the envelope and pulled out the contents.

The sum total of that was one sheet of paper torn from a newspaper. It had been folded neatly into quarters. He rechecked the envelope, but no explanatory note was included. _Maybe it's inside the paper._ But as he unfolded the sheet of newsprint, it became clear that no note accompanied it.

He read the paper's name out loud, his tone of voice reflecting his puzzlement. "_San Diego Union-Tribune_?"

He couldn't immediately think of any contact in San Diego who would be sending him anything, particularly with no explanation given. Sure, he had lots of film industry contacts all over California and beyond, but… A quick perusal of both sides of the sheet confirmed that no story had been circled or starred. There was no indication of which was the relevant news item. Once again, he examined the envelope, but it surrendered no clues.

The sheet had been taken from the back pages of Section 1. The articles – there were several of them – appeared to be news that was relevant enough to report, but which apparently lacked the "wow" factor necessary to make them worthy of more column space. "Local Shark Sightings Up This Summer," he read. "_Da_ dum _da_ dum _da _dum," he sing-songed in a low voice as he moved on to the next small headline.

"Navy To Test New Vessel." The military connotations of this article gave Stan pause, but there was nothing exceptional or alarming in the few paragraphs written there.

"Lucky Padres Fan Wins World Series Trip." _World Series trip? _he thought, a bit surprised. _The Series was three months ago. How old is this?_

He directed his gaze up toward the top of the page to check the date, but as he did so his attention was caught, and held fast, by one of the headlines. It was posted over a short item that was tucked into the far left side of the page, just below the fold. He stared at the headline for a long moment, almost unwilling to read on, a sick certainty building in his gut. This was the article he was meant to see. He scrubbed a hand across his face and blinked hard a few times in a futile attempt to make the words change.

Finally, he read it out loud in a numb monotone: "Notorious Domestic Terrorist Dies In Baja."

He read on, vocalizing key parts of the report. "Sarah Connor…fugitive…terrorist activity…leukemia…last week…thirty-one years old…survived by her son…whereabouts unknown…1995 bombing…Cyberdyne Systems…1984 hostage incident…" He read the last line in full: "Interment to take place at Greenlawn Cemetery, north of Los Angeles."

Now he looked at the top of the page. It was dated October 18, 1997. Two and a half months she had been gone already. He folded his arms on the desk in front of him, then rested his forehead on them, remaining that way for an extended length of time. Twenty minutes, an hour, more? He really didn't know; it didn't matter. No amount of time would ever be enough to come to terms with this cruel reality. _Just when she was finally free, _he thought, bitterly. _She only hung on long enough to… _He left the thought unfinished. And he knew that Sarah likely would never have been free. Judgment Day failing to take place on August 29, 1997 only would have motivated her to stay vigilant and prepared in the event that it still did come.

He raised his head. "I guess she's free _now_," he said quietly, with a defeated sounding finality. There was no comfort in that knowledge. His high spirits had plummeted, having met their match, after all. Even the optimism with which he had entered this new year, all of it was threatening to drain away in an instant. For the moment, he resigned himself to it, slowly refolding the paper.

Then he felt a sudden surge of anger, and an impulse to crush the offending paper between his hands, to shred it into nothing recognizable. The unfairness of it was almost too much. Sarah had earned her peace of mind, her chance to rest. She should have had more time to enjoy it. This kind of "rest" wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

He slammed a fist down on the desk with full force, the sound of it thunderous in the silent, dimly lit room. "This wasn't the way it was supposed to be," he insisted, in a low, choked whisper.

He rose from behind the desk, now feeling overcome by a deep weariness. He wanted to just go and collapse into bed, even if he knew sleep wouldn't come. But first…

He picked up the page of newspaper from the desk, snapped off the desk lamp, and left the room. In the kitchen, he pawed impatiently in a drawer of small utility items until he came up with what he was searching for: a book of matches. He struck one, staring into the flame as it ate its way toward his fingertips. Then he dropped it into the sink and watched it consume itself. To him, this was a micro-cosm of the world itself. But for the actions of Sarah and her allies, the world would have consumed itself in flame five months ago. Nodding, as if coming to a decision, he struck a second match, then reached for the newspaper page. He might regret burning the page later, but right now it would serve as a catharsis for his anger and grief.

He held the page over the sink and fed one corner of it into the hungry flame, watching expressionlessly as the fire chewed its way along one edge. Suddenly, his eyes widened in amazement. "Damn!" he gasped, in disbelief, now groping in the sink for a cloth. After frantically beating at the paper with it, he succeeded in smothering the flame. He looked down at the singed and soggy mess in dismay, before retrieving it from the sink. The bottom half of the page remained intact, and it was still reasonably dry despite falling into the wet sink. The upper half of the page was mostly gone, but fortunately, it was the other half he wanted. He placed it on the kitchen table and ran a hand over it to flatten it out, all the while peering closely at the page. But it wasn't an article he was studying so intently; it was the page itself.

The bottom right hand corner of the page had been neatly folded upward, creating a triangle about one inch across. The top part of the triangle had been folded down, then folded upward once more, creating an accordion effect on that corner of the page. Stan had seen this before. He had seen it many times, in fact. On pieces of notebook paper, on receipts, even on dollar bills. What had once been simply an absent-minded habit was now serving as a calling card, a signature.

"Alex," he whispered, the amazement still evident in his voice. He hadn't seen Alex Chang since that day on the pier over two years ago. He had simply vanished without a trace, just as he had told Stan he planned to do. And even yet, clearly he believed that Greg Simmons – despite his problems with Cyberdyne's insolvency – was still a threat to him. And probably he was right. Simmons would likely forever hold a grudge against Al for having handed over such revealing items to Stan. So Al was protecting himself, sending on this information without identifying himself or his location anywhere on the outer envelope, or in the envelope's contents. He had seen to it that there would be no postal cancellation indicating where he was.

How it had been delivered, and by whom, Stan suspected he would never know, just as he would never know how Alex had come upon this article himself. Surely, he couldn't be as close as San Diego. He also knew that there wouldn't be so much as a single fingerprint on the items that could connect them to him. He had "signed" the package, identifying himself as the sender, in a way that only Stan would recognize.

Stan shook his head, a slight smile creasing his lips. "Alex, you clever bastard," he muttered. "I sure owe you one."

He picked up the half page of paper and took it with him down the hallway. After tucking it safely into the top drawer of his dresser, he turned off the light and lay down. He stared into the darkness for a long time, mixed feelings warring within him. How _should _he feel after receiving such bad news and such good news at the same time? By the time sleep claimed him, he still had no answer.

ooOOoo

Stan chose to ignore the driver who was giving him the finger, as he roared past on his left. He had been riding Stan's bumper for half a mile now, and it was obvious he was in a hurry to get _somewhere._ As far as Stan was concerned, he could have passed him on the all-but-deserted two lane highway any time he had wanted to. For his part, he was taking his time; there were no time deadlines where he was going. The morning sun shone down brightly on the rural landscape. He was driving through rolling countryside northeast of the city. It seemed like a pleasant, peaceful area, as good a place as any for…

The car ahead was slowing and signaling a left hand turn. Stan was reasonably sure that this was his destination, too. He smiled wryly at the realization that this was where the finger-flipper had wanted to get to so fast. A large sign near the roadside confirmed that he had found the right place: GREENLAWN CEMETERY.

_Relax, pal, _he thought, _there's nobody here in much of a hurry. _

He parked in a lot near the gate, then climbed from the car, having already dismissed the impatient driver from his thoughts. He had been cramped up in the car for some time, and now he enjoyed a good stretch and a deep breath of fresh air. Surveying the well-kept grounds from the parking lot, he finished his earlier thought aloud: "Yeah, as good a place as any – for a cemetery."

The sun was doing little to warm up a cool January day, and he pulled his jacket more tightly around himself. He had been in far too many cemeteries to believe that he might have shivered for any other reason. But an uneasy feeling told him that this visit was different. This was Sarah Connor, the woman who had haunted his entire adult life, even while she was _alive. _

He reached into the car and lifted out a small, tasteful flower arrangement – Sarah, he felt sure, wouldn't have wanted anything garish – then walked toward the grounds. He had no idea where to look for Sarah's grave, and he found himself wandering aimlessly through rows of headstones, reading names and failing to find the one he was looking for.

Now coming to the end of yet another row, he paused and glanced across the roadway that ran through the cemetery. A pathway ran from the road, past a fountain, and up to the door of a crypt. He crossed the road and approached it, fully expecting the door to be locked. But the latch gave easily under his thumb, and the door swung open. He hesitated, wondering if his "friend" from the highway might be in there. Or anyone, for that matter. He didn't want to disturb anyone who might be in there.

He stepped inside and descended the stairs to a statue-adorned anteroom. After listening for a minute or two, he hadn't heard any sounds coming from the next room. A quick look around the corner confirmed that the room was empty. In this room, rows of plaques with names on them lined one wall, behind which presumably were the coffins of the deceased. Small flower holders were mounted on the wall beside each plaque. Stan relaxed a bit, now that he knew he had the room to himself. He walked into the inner room and looked around a bit more. Branched wall lamps provided soft lighting. Urns stood encased behind glass along the marbleized walls. Benches were located on both sides of the room.

Stan started to scan along the rows of plaques. It didn't take him long to find the one he was looking for, and when his gaze fell on it, he took a small, involuntary step backwards. He had only learned of Sarah's death yesterday, and it hadn't fully sunk in for him yet. Coming face to face with the engraved truth of it suddenly made it very real. He sat down on one of the benches, staring steadily at the words on the plaque. It read:

SARAH CONNOR

1959-1997

NO FATE BUT WHAT WE MAKE

"…for ourselves," he added quietly, completing the phrase that had become very familiar to him. And what was in front of him was that fate; gone far too soon. Sarah had been just thirty-one years old at the time of her death. This thought made him realize that something wasn't quite right. Still looking at the plaque, Stan frowned. He shook his head, mildly disgusted. _They got the dates wrong._ Sarah hadn't been born in 1959; she was a good five years younger than that. He wondered if the manner in which she had lived had aged her beyond her years. Maybe whoever had given the engraver the information had only been guessing at her age. Surely John would have known the correct dates, though. But regardless of how the mistake had come to be, the fact remained that even in death, Sarah had been dealt one final indignity.

Having thought momentarily about John, Stan now wondered if he had ever been here. Had he arranged his mother's interment, or had it been someone else? The article in the _Union-Tribune _had said his whereabouts were unknown. He reflected on that, and on all of his memories of Sarah, for some time. Eventually, the sound of a car door slamming out in the parking lot brought him out of his reverie. He glanced at his watch and realized that close to an hour had passed since he had come in here.

One thing seemed curious to him. This was the closest he had been to Sarah Connor in fourteen years, yet he had no sense of her actually being there. He knew it was a bit much to expect to sense the presence of the no-longer-living, but still the emptiness of the feeling gnawed at him. Even the tattered bit of paper that Sarah had written on so long ago, and which he still had, seemed to have more of her essence in it than he could sense in this room. Maybe it was because there were specific memories – happy ones – attached to that small memento. He reached into his pocket and brought out the battered scrap. There was practically nothing left of it now. The writing itself was faded and ghostly, and the paper had all but disintegrated where it had been creased. But that was okay; it, too, had reached the end of its journey.

He stood up, stepped over to the plaque, and pressed the frayed remnant of paper to the letters of Sarah's name. "I never forgot, Sarah," he said. "I wish I could have made it up to you. And I wish I could have done more to help." He thought briefly of what his world would look like right now if August 29 had gone differently, if things hadn't been changed. Emitting a small, mirthless laugh, he concluded, "But you didn't need it, did you? You did just fine."

The words seemed hopelessly inadequate, but it was the best he could do. He pulled some flowers from the arrangement he had brought with him and set them into the holder affixed to the wall beside Sarah's plaque, leaving the rest of the arrangement at the base of the wall. Then, parting the leaves of the flowers in the holder, he tucked the small scrap of paper in among the stems and closed the greenery around it once more. Stepping back, he laid his hand on the plaque and stood meditatively for a short while. In a barely audible voice, he whispered, "No fate…", then he turned and walked away.

ooOOoo

Stan's final words in the crypt had been meant as a sincere tribute, but they had also been laced with bitterness. The moment marked a turning point for him, one characterized by a sense of suspicious cynicism. No fate but what we make for ourselves, indeed. He could no longer believe it. It was the big lie, one which sent people on hopeless fools' errands. What had Sarah's efforts brought to her? Only a premature death and societal condemnation. She had deserved better. No one would ever know the truth of what she had done, what difference she had made. He knew that it was enough simply that she _had_ made that difference, but the bitter feelings clung stubbornly to him, casting a pall over his disposition for several months.

The good omens that his year had begun with were fully realized as the weeks went by. The movie deal was struck, and he developed a solid relationship with the small studio. But it was hard for him to enjoy the success. The clouds didn't part for him until mid-summer, when he finally started to feel more like his old self again. It had been a strange and lengthy grieving period over someone that he, in a sense, had never really known.

But he was thankful that he was starting to see the world in colour again. Over time he felt increasingly better, and by the time a new year arrived once more, he was looking forward with optimism. This was against the better judgment of the now ever-present voice of cynicism within him, but he couldn't help it. He dared to believe that things were looking up.

When he arrived home from shooting one day to find a large manila envelope standing up in the mailbox, it stopped him in his tracks. He didn't need to puzzle over the mysterious unidentified sender this time; he knew who it was. It was just a matter of seeing what the message was. The lump rising in his throat suggested that he wasn't anticipating good news.

He tore the envelope open as soon as he got inside. Like the last time, the envelope held one single sheet torn from a newspaper. As he had expected, the bottom right hand corner of the page had been folded to create an accordion-type effect, identifying Alex as the sender. Stan didn't even look for the date or for where the paper was from; he started to scan headlines immediately, looking for the relevant one. A sudden, sharp intake of breath signaled that he had found it.

"CRS Acquires Cyberdyne Assets", the article was headlined. He read on: "Pentagon sources have revealed that the military-affiliated Cyber Research Systems has acquired all remaining assets once belonging to Los Angeles area computer company Cyberdyne Systems. Cyberdyne failed to recover from a 1995 domestic terrorist attack on its primary facility, ultimately declaring bankruptcy. CRS has reportedly come into possession of the off-site back-up files that had been kept by the Irvine-based company."

"The nature of the files and the research remains classified, but a CRS spokesman said the company would continue to build on the work that Cyberdyne's top scientists had started. Miles Bennett Dyson, the director of the original project, was killed in the 1995 attack on Cyberdyne's facility. 'The best tribute that we can pay to Miles Dyson,' the CRS spokesman said, 'is to see that the potential of the technological research he started comes to fruition. Full military funding for the project will hasten the research, and allow for the resulting technology to be put into active practical use at the earliest date possible. Americans can rest assured that our country has never been so secure.'"

Stan dropped the paper to the kitchen table, shocked; he could already feel a sense of dread rising within him. It was happening again, all his positive feelings swept away in an instant, just like a year ago. The implications of the article were clear; obviously, they had been equally clear to Alex. The world's ultimate fate was being made even yet. It still wasn't over.

xxx (End Chapter 9) xxx

Chapter Notes:

1. "Dirty Laundry" (Henley/Kortchmar), by Don Henley (1982)

2. Stan's thought about the fluid in the syringe, and how anything blue being injected into the human body couldn't be a good thing, is based on a comment made by James Cameron in the Director's Commentary of the T2: Extreme Edition DVD.

3. Thanks for the reviews, as well as the e-mails/messages asking when Chapter 9 is ever going to be posted! The answer is…now. :-) (December 2, 2006)


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